"Thee break up with his teeth and hands,
know your eyes drunk by the dogs,
dying on the cross can be grateful to
a good man named Pilate. "
Much more death today wants you, kill you
the poison of these words:
the voices of the fathers of those babies,
slain by Herod for you.
In mournful mockery of new clothes
measure drops to the pain you feel;
have waited thirty years with the liver in hand,
the gasps of a charlatan. They move
curves widows in the head,
for them is not a holiday afternoon,
dampers are the clothes on the eyes and heart but filter
veils pain:
faithful humiliated by an inhuman
believe that the slaves would have before Abraham,
gratefully hours soffron
punishment of those who forgave Mary Magdalene,
with a wave of those who only fraternal
a new indulgence taught the Almighty,
and looks up, transfixed by the sun,
the pangs of a redeemer . Confused
the crowd follow you dumb
dismayed at the thought that you greet them:
"To redeem the world" they need to think,
Your blood may be enough.
Sowing
by sea and by land through the woods and city your good news, but this
tomorrow, with better faith,
tonight is stronger than terror.
None of them will cry a farewell
found to be the cousin of God, the apostles
have closed under the gorges,
brother bleeding on the cross.
Han faces lying, already prone to forgiveness,
now who have seen the blood of your
man rubbed his limbs purple rivulets,
still incapable of harm.
power clothed in human guise,
now considers you dead enough
and already turning their eyes to spy out the intentions
the humble, the beggars.
But the eyes of the poor cry elsewhere
not been in pain
show that the way of the cross has prohibited the entry
who loves you as himself.
are pale face, sunken chest,
do not have the face of those who welcomes
gestures that now offers you the pain,
yet have a place of honor.
not have eyes sparks of pain.
'm not surprised to see you back
bent wood that barely drag,
yet you are close.
Forgive them if they leave you alone,
if they can die on the cross too,
not have to cry in that the mothers
after all, are only two thieves.
(Way of the Cross - Fabrizio De Andrè)
dying on the cross can be grateful to
a good man named Pilate. "
Much more death today wants you, kill you
the poison of these words:
the voices of the fathers of those babies,
slain by Herod for you.
In mournful mockery of new clothes
measure drops to the pain you feel;
have waited thirty years with the liver in hand,
the gasps of a charlatan. They move
curves widows in the head,
for them is not a holiday afternoon,
dampers are the clothes on the eyes and heart but filter
veils pain:
faithful humiliated by an inhuman
believe that the slaves would have before Abraham,
gratefully hours soffron
punishment of those who forgave Mary Magdalene,
with a wave of those who only fraternal
a new indulgence taught the Almighty,
and looks up, transfixed by the sun,
the pangs of a redeemer . Confused
the crowd follow you dumb
dismayed at the thought that you greet them:
"To redeem the world" they need to think,
Your blood may be enough.
Sowing
by sea and by land through the woods and city your good news, but this
tomorrow, with better faith,
tonight is stronger than terror.
None of them will cry a farewell
found to be the cousin of God, the apostles
have closed under the gorges,
brother bleeding on the cross.
Han faces lying, already prone to forgiveness,
now who have seen the blood of your
man rubbed his limbs purple rivulets,
still incapable of harm.
power clothed in human guise,
now considers you dead enough
and already turning their eyes to spy out the intentions
the humble, the beggars.
But the eyes of the poor cry elsewhere
not been in pain
show that the way of the cross has prohibited the entry
who loves you as himself.
are pale face, sunken chest,
do not have the face of those who welcomes
gestures that now offers you the pain,
yet have a place of honor.
not have eyes sparks of pain.
'm not surprised to see you back
bent wood that barely drag,
yet you are close.
Forgive them if they leave you alone,
if they can die on the cross too,
not have to cry in that the mothers
after all, are only two thieves.
(Way of the Cross - Fabrizio De Andrè)
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