A Poem Without a Title--Any Suggestions?

Flocking farther and farther away
From home and hearth's head hidden do stray
Why do these poor people push and plead?
Why will this man so willingly bleed?

Five thousand gatherd, food they had not.
For cousin's death, he solitude sought.
But compassion, kindness he showed,
Even the cross, his blood free did flow.

Full five thousand fed he on that day
Many million more if through him pray
Twelve baskets they bore back, his gifts three
Two fish, five loaves, his death on the tree.

Yet these simple folk secured so much
More than a meal and his healing touch
An empty tomb and eternal life
What more could they want? But they gave strife.

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They brought him an end
A payment for crime
Who thought he would spend
His life so divine.
On crowds who ignore
And men who betray
When counting the score
Who knew he would pay
The sins and the dooms
Of men even now
Were ransomed and rooms
Are built for them now
And built by a king
So loving and sure
All heaven will sing
For darkness made pure.