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I bear a cross upon my back , though its weight I do not feel,
for many, many years have passed since then.
And so the story goes, it was the Lord that made it so,
for I carried his son to Jerusalem .
I could not bear to see his suffering – begged - let me take the load,
for to carry burdens seems why I was bred.
I could not leave, I turned my back, I brayed and called his name
as they sacrificed him there – and his wounds bled.
The shadow of the cross fell across my back and shoulders,
the Lord said that it would stay there evermore;
as a reward for the loyalty that to his son I'd shown
and for the love I gave his son who I adored.
And the stripes upon my legs were from cuts caused by the palm leaves
strewn before me on the day sweet Jesus died,
and they remain, visual reminders of a harsh and torrid time.
These are memories, all donkeys hold inside.
And so through the generations and despite the many years,
still the crucifixion shadow mars our hide.
We - we were the chosen ones, the whole world still remembers
us - we carried Jesus on his final ride.
see some scribbles here - http://scribblybarkpoetry.blogspot.com.au/