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Simon of Cyrene

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(I thought I'd write very short story in a quasi-poem style) 


Jesus of Nazareth?   How could that be?  

His parents left us in Egypt, when I was a toddler, playing. 

Mine had moved to Egypt from the Cyrene,

the carpenter's family, from the Galilee.

My mother often told me about a strange glow from Mary,

and said, “Mark my word, that kind of peace will have a history.”    


Years after Joseph and family departed from Egypt,

my parents recalled the blessing of that infant,

“We can’t tell the times, that after having held him,

it seemed we were the ones who were comforted!”    


When at the Temple, I heard Jesus preach,

and learned he was the son of Joseph and Mary,

the stories of my mother and father flooded in my crying. 

Was this truly the one who had been a neighbor to me?  

The thought exploded when I heard “Nazarene”.  


When some from the Romans demanded I help with the Cross,

we bonded once more, under such weight, impending loss.  

But I noticed his kindness, even under torment,

was just like the time when he told of chicks and the mother hen.  

Jesus so grappled to lay hold of the Cross,

with that same protective instinct, like a hen over us,

that I felt a surge to help, although we were blatantly bossed. 


We struggled to Golgotha, he in pain, I in sorrow.  

I stayed there to witness him leave me again.  

And later, after Jesus appeared in the City of David,

I laughed in holy-shock, “Why am I not surprised?  He is my Friend!”

Edited by Ragamuffin_John

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