Simon Cyrene caries Jesus' cross

From Cyrene’s fields to dusty roads, I came,
A stranger, met with scorn and bitter frame.
The crowd cried out with jeers and sharp disdain,
“Make way! Make way for Judah’s mocked reign.”

Amid the throng, a figure bent with wood,
His form collapsed, as all misunderstood.
In that stark moment, fate drew me near,
A cross was thrust upon me, heavy and severe.

Beneath its weight, my initial protest stilled,
As He looked on, His purpose subtly instilled.
His eyes, though dimmed, a quiet pleading bore,
A silent call to hearts, to seek and explore.

I, Simon, once just a passerby,
Now linked to Him by the beam I carry high.
From grudging steps to willing, open stride,
I bore His cross, His path became my guide.

This wooden burden, once a cruel decree,
Became my blessing, His lesson clear to me.
To take His cross, not by force but choice,
And in its shadow, find reason to rejoice.

Now forever marked by that hallowed day,
Under His cross, gladly I’ll ever stay.