Christ wept—
men surely were not worthy of life—
of the beauty which filled the world—
He turned away—
and still hearing the noise of battle—
walked under the pines—
He came upon a small cabin—
sheltered by tall trees—
the roof was covered by fallen leaves—
a light shone from the window.
Inside—a babe slept in its cradle—
and the mother gently rocked it—
singing a soft lullaby—
Her thoughts were with him, in the valley below—battling in the iron clutch of war—
Scarcely knowing for what—or for whom he fought—
She kissed her babe
and knelt down before its cradle—
Oh Christ—
help me in my hour of need.
protect him—
protect my child—
The sorrow of Christ had gone—