The King

Within a cave of winter cold,
A newborn King gets gift of gold.
The babe is our Lord,
Who escaped the sword,
Because his dad does what he’s told.

The King grows up and fasts and prays,
Within the desert, forty days.
Temptation then came,
But he beat the game,
Because he minds The Father’s ways.

The King does heal and teach and feed,
He’s hailed with palms; beaten with reed.
The crowd screams, Yes, kill!
Then his blood does spill,
Because of fear and hate and greed.

The King is slain and put in grave,
By everyone he came to save.
And though he is dead,
There’s nothing to dread,
Because he rose and us forgave!

Within a Lent of winter cold,
Let’s mend our hearts; do what we’re told.
We’ll fast, and we’ll pray,
Forgive the wrong way,
And give The King our gifts of gold.

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