Study, with unbiased, impartial eyes,
That Jew—Jesus of Nazareth.
He walked around the temple monoliths—
Thought nothing of their massive size
But traveled to herald in rural parts.
He spoke on hills, by paths, on boats,
Told stories about shepherds, sheep and goats . . .
Words piercing through listeners’ hearts
Who either were convicted or inflamed.
(Wise words history soon forgets—
Like small fry flowing through fishermen’s nets—
No matter what truth someone proclaimed.)
This Nazarene would tell, or touch, to heal:
The bent stood straight, paralyzed walked,
Blinded men saw—and the crowds stared and gawked.
He stayed with some, broke bread at meals.
To a dead girl, I tell you to get up
And she rose out of her bed,
Ran to her father, cuddled, and then fed.
At his last meal, Drink from my cup.
Everyone knows the rest of the story:
This man Jesus, nailed on a cross—
Roman billboard warning for rebel dross.
So, is this myth, allegory?
He rose from a tomb: The King of Glory
Who walked about for forty days
And ascended through Galilean haze—
History’s last fabled story?