Public Humiliation of the Innocent.

Good Friday

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.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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