Poem: 2nd half
Once there was a man whose wrists ran dry,
Gravity was the foe of this man's blood supply.
He was wondering why,
To His Maker/Father, He began to cry,
Dying on a tree, born in a sty?
I am, the kings' King, who never tested lie...
Six to nine inches of the world stabbing at His Spirit,
O Israel, Listen to this rebuke, you need to hear it.
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