“Jesus wandered at woodstock”

In August’s muddy, music-wild domain,  
Where dreams were woven through the falling rain,  
Tie-dye banners spun with hopeful hands,  
And peace was bartered on the distant lands—  
There, midst the crowd on Yasgur’s trampled sod,  
A gentle stranger strode, unknown as God.  

Sandaled feet pressed petals in the dew,  
Robed in denim blue, a heart so true,  
He wove between the patchwork tents and shouts  
Of freedom, justice, love—dispelling doubt.  
His laughter sparked where campfires lit the night,  
With parted loaves and words that set things right.  

He fed the hungry, singing by the flame,  
Passed water from a jug—a holy game  
Of sharing, healing, arms around the frail  
Whose silent hurts the music could not heal.  
His eyes met sorrow—soft, forgiving light—  
He blessed the lost, then vanished from their sight.  

Some thought he was a dream between the songs,  
A shimmered vision where the world belongs—  
Yet hearts grew wide as morning met the field,  
A sense of being seen, and gently healed.  
Woodstock’s memory, in mud and leafy grass,  
Still holds the echo: Jesus seemed to pass.

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