All through the night he was moved and tried,
no one stood by him and not one dared stay,
Peter denied knowing him and a cock crowed,
people yelled, ‘Crucify!’ when Pilate was unsure.
Washing his hands, wipes away innocent blood,
scans the grown ugly mob and turns to Jesus,
and hands the love of God over to his fate.
Whipped til his skin reveals the bones, forced
to walk humiliated and shamed, struggling
bearing the sign of a murderer, wearing
a crown, meant as a taunt, which pierced
his head, blood pools in those loving eyes.
Blood lost left him weak and faint. he fell,
His already blood smeared cross, it falls,
Simon was called to carry it to the skull,
There, on the cruel mount he laid it down.
Nearby, hIs faithful followers stood stunned,
flinching and vomiting at each hammer blow,
unbelieving, as he was raised up above them,
watching him gasp, he was hardly breathing.
Proud of their feat the jealous elders shuddered,
Feet ran swiftly. Tells -The temple curtain is torn.
Jesus called out in terror, abandoned, alone,
calling on God to forgive their ignorant wrongs.
Then a collective sigh as he breathed his last,
the healing, loving man was gone from their grasp.
Truly dead declared the sword in his watery side.
Violated, abused, his spirit was freed.
They brought him down, lowering his broken body,
gently they wiped away flies, blood and smears,
then carrying him, awkward in death, to a tomb
hidden in a garden, where Spring flowers bloom.
Mary his mother, tear stained shock showing
in her face lined with grief, pain and living,
stumbles over stones and Joanna holds her
while Mary of Magdala holds onto his feet.
The cold blast from the whitened sepulchre
welcomes the already stinking, oozing corpse.
Death always come with grim decomposition
and the loss of a person we will dreadfully miss.
The stone in place and the group drift away,
numbed by the traumas of the recent day,
each tree a reminder of his stertorous breath,
each nail etched into their tortured memory.
No one can speak stretching the silence,
sick with himself, Peter goes off alone,
his manly pride battered by his denial
of a man he loved, worshipped, adored.
All over the world they humiliate the fallen,
the innocent and callously condemn them
each to a whip, public execution and so
he, in them, feels their heart and weeps
in desolation of our vile inhumanity.