Every day his feet are sore from walking.
Every day his dust-choked throat is dry.
Every day he prays before the sunrise,
Interceding for the hearts that cry.
Everyday: his clothes, his speech, his family.
Everyday: he stays near his small town.
Everyday: he seems so ordinary,
Yet some say if we knew, we’d kneel down.
Soon the day shall come when he is stricken,
Soon the day shall come when all is lost,
Soon the day shall come when he is murdered,
By friends and by the Romans double-crossed.
But for now, he takes a final rest-day,
But for now, he laughs with all his friends,
But for now, at his side Mary’s staying,
That Silent Wednesday “everyday” now ends.