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Poetry is not the blood you bleed,
Poetry is the bandaid you need.
The Son of Man came to serve
to seek and to save the lost
to touch and to heal the hurt
regardless of the personal cost

The Son of Man came to embrace
the full breath of the human condition
He sat down in utter poverty
with those too used to exclusion

He walked in step with the weak
putting up with ignorant derision,
He shared His gentle wisdom
in the face of studied indifference

The Son of Man came willingly
to trek in worn, scuffed sandles
to suffer with blood blisters,
sprained ankles and tough calluses

The Son of Man suffered much
though He lived without any fault,
He was a man all too acquainted
with aches and tears and snot

He accepted all of their beatings,
the abuse, the cuts and the bruises
But at the last He was willing to gasp:
'Father, forgive my accusers.'
More than human.
 Feb 2019 Starving Artist
RedD
I'd rather give you
real ones
and real kisses
and real love

We could make it real
one day
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