By the Watchman Dana G Smith
keywords: martyr, anointing, blood, Jesus Christ, Father

The Sun shone through steepled glass,

Marked, colored, shimmering at times.
Depicting the scenes of faith gone by.
It had been full, now it is empty, doors open wide.
Wind blew dirt and dust into the hall.
Here were the paths worn well by believers.
Blood, dried by the sun, spotted the floor.
Bullet casings lay scattered outside and gave witness,
Yea, to a tale told, one of a past holocaust.
Now the little church lay emptied.
It was now a tomb of old fables and stories,
One that brought chuckles from those who had observed it all.
Lives that were lost, blood was spilt,
Upon the grounds where mockers now walked,
Far removed from this were the faithless,
For on that day, faith stood still in the bosom of the faithful.
Yea, in the heart of the knowledgeable ones who knew Him,
For these understood whom they stood for on that day,
In front of mockers, besieged by those who despised them.