Cross of Ages

by barbaria1, Mar 10, 2018, 1:18:57 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Cross of Ages

Cross of Ages, standing free,
crucified I hang on thee;
oozing thick my precious blood,
from my many wounds doth flood,
pain and sorrow must I endure;
until death doth make me pure.

Nails were driven through my hands
to fulfill the law's commands;
could my zeal no respite know,
could my tears forever flow,
I will scream and I will moan;
without hope I'll die alone.

No plea for mercy do I sing,
while naked to the cross I cling;
sweat upon my breasts doth sheen;
to the left and right I lean;
writhing to the crowd's delight;
dancing to the whip's cruel bite.

When I draw last fleeting breath,
when mine eyes shall close in death,
when I soar to worlds unknown,
lasting peace shall be my own,
Cross of Ages, standing free,
crucified I hang on thee.

*********

Apologies to Reverend Augustus Toplady,
who wrote the lyrics to
Rock of Ages in 1876

Manip by Bobinder

Barbaria 2017

Cross of Ages by barbaria1

Watch Mature Content

©2018-2019 barbaria1

swabianblondie Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2018

it's a special fate to suffer on the cross. A pity that you have to suffer alone and not in companionship...

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Jackie6666 Featured By Owner Mar 12, 2018

Loved this poem and pic.

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barbaria1 Featured By Owner Mar 12, 2018

Thanks Jackie

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barbaria1 Featured By Owner Edited Mar 10, 2018

Thanks Bob ... chapters from our epic "Barbarossanova" to come here soon.

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Bobnearled Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2018 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Great news - you can insert all the pictures, and I can link my submissions to the relevant episodes! :) (Smile)

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Bobnearled Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2018 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Congratulations on your DeviantArt debut, Barb!

A beautiful interpretation of this inspirational theme - and very nicely illustrated too! :happybounce:

Hoping to see more from you very soon. :D (Big Grin)

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OC Meme*Copy this into your Meme..
-Choose 10 of your OC's
-Answer the questions
-Then tag 3 people
---
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
---
1.) 3, 7, 4, and 9 go ice skating. What happens?
2.) Its Christmas!!! 5 throws a christmas party and invites three people of choice. Who does he/she invite? What happens?
3.) 6 catches 2 dancing/singing to the 'spice girls'. What's 6's reaction?
4.) 1 and 10 are stuck in a janitor's closet. How the crap did they get in there?
5.) 4 confesses his/her love for 8. What happens?
6.) 3 walks in to see 6 and 7 making out in 3's closet.. What is their reactions?
7.) 9 and 5 have an argument that soon turns into a fist fight. How did it start? And How does 2 try to break it up?
8.) 6 and 7 are getting married! But 8 is in love with 7. What does 8 do?
9.) You here a knock on your door. You open it to see every one of your OC's bursting in to your home. What do you do?
10.) 2 admits to you that he/she killed 9. What do you do?
11.) Everyone gat

nightmares.there are demons in your eyes, darling;
fall asleep listening to their screams, fall
asleep tracing your ribcage and wonder if maybe
your heart is a ghost, maybe your heart is haunting
someone, somewhere. fall asleep and dream of
needles prodding at your mind, pulling out the weeds
as if your mind was a garden, your mind is a
garden but once the weeds are gone, there is nothing but
dirt; dirt and worms and nightmares and screams.
dream of fingers shoved down your throat, and they have found
your heart and your heart is not a ghost, no, your heart is alive,
because the fingers are clawing your heart and it hurts like
fingernails on blackboards and you scream, and someone is listening but they're
laughing;
fall asleep and forget you're dreaming.

We breathe heavily as we face each other
Hearts at a race as the truth uncovers
Down my neck
Rolls a drop of sweat
As I realize just where we're at
Anxious yet nervous
Scared is not the word but,
What would happen if someone heard us
The thought quickly leaves
As you come even closer to me
My heart skips and I forget to breathe
A quarter inch from you
I can't run, why would I want to?
You know I want you, and I see what you want too
My arms slowly wrap around your waist
Your sweetness I prepare to taste
We tilt heads and our lips barely touch
Slowly part, then back again,
This time quenching tongue's thirst for lust

InsanityWhy hello there insanity
Let me walk you 'round the floor
If you look off to your left
you'll see the girl i was before.
The tiles might be broken
But its nothing time can't fix
But if you think its art-work
Then all the broken parts will mix.
And the doorknobs may not work
But you can crawl through like spies
The holes you made with your fist
Are looking just your size.
The mirror in the hallway
Has seen some better days
And although you may see yourself
It's not uncommon to also see haze.
And the windows may be drafty
But i promise its not too cold
And if you can deal with that
I'm sure that you'll be sold.
And you see here in the closet
That the lightswitch doesn't work
But that only because
There are inner demons that lurk.
The picture frames are empty
But thats only an attempt to forget
All the fun i once had
And the soul that I once bet.
There's shattered glass in the bedroom
From when you told it was goodbye
And i let the bird out of it's cage
Knowing it would die.
But the basem

afghanistan doesn't exist.my disposable income
is fed to the local
pharmacy in exchange
for bright coloured
lacquer, with rainbow
names like 'bo peep'
and 'gum bear'.
how could you ever
feel shame or guilt or
sadness with a name
like 'candied violet' so
adorning your carefully
manicured nails? how a
cocktail of 'coralicious'
and 'tangerine queen'
could make you feel
like anything but a
flamingo?
i sleep in the tropics
in summer and in
the carnival in winter
and it shows on my
nails. i don't own black.
or gray. would you
admit that your sweet
dreams see the things
your waking hours
refuse to? would you
dare let it slip your
lips that he died out
there in your head?
does the world need
to know that you're
worried when he's
joking? when he finds
it... funny... that he's
getting shot at in a
faraway country? that
you can't crumble into
his lap and clutch at
his collar to please
don't go? that you
never knew a soldier.
i don't own sand colour
or army khaki, or the green
peculiarity of his eyes.
because afghan

The WerewolfWith blood red fangs I release my cry,
Up towards the moon in the sky.
A beast of night I become,
Scaring human hunters numb.
In the forest they've lost their way,
And will not live another day.
Because their scent I have caught,
Them and the deer they just shot.
On the path now I can feel,
That I'm in for a tasty meal.
This is my forest and I rule,
My werewolf instincts my only tool.
My tongue burns for their taste,
Their bones I'll gladly turn to paste.
I'm right behind them, I can smell their fear,
Fear not my friends the end is near.
Dodging their bullets and ripping them apart,
Through their rib cage and to their heart.

things i have buriedbatches of badly folded letters from my grandmother's
apartment, all tightly scrawled russian, smudged ink.
the luna moth my brother caught when i was seven,
its wings becoming a chartreuse stain on his palms.
the mark of every song that has ever made me feel,
each differently shaped and stitched together
to form the patchwork of resilience that is my heart.
sepia photographs, antiquated polaroids,
with nothing written in the white spaces
where stories of moments should be.
narrow granada streets, their uneven cobblestones
turned hazy with august's heavy heat;
the familiar taste of tears etched into frown lines
that i am too young to already have.

Crows"Crows," I whisper and she flies,
brown arrow shot
from the bowstring of a word.

She wrote me:
This is the time of all things read;
the time of books, clean hands, straw dogs,
shared looks. This is the time
that finds the time to settle down;
to open that smile with enormous plans;
to pound on metal rolled with rust;
to lie when lovers lie, alone, quiet,
in kitsch and style.
She wrote me:
Death for some is a careless cat,
one that lacks a voice—and love—
and never plays chess.
But that is not my choice.
You see, I prefer the quieter sort;
the kind of death that stalks one
through shapeless blur, a caress of trust
and a lack of breath—now three, now two—
a sweet bluff and a face that looks
of you, only that's not enough.
I remember the films during which you cry,
and the way you hide it, fiddling
with your change to make your eyes avoid
the two mice riddling some pocket full of holes.
I remember the nights you tried to pray.
You clasped your hands and dreamt up God
and what he may or may not do. And I,
following November, came with you.
I remembe

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Submitted on: March 10, 2018
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer
Mature Content: Yes

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