The Passion
Betrayed and tortured, there upon the cross
Christ hung: His tired head with a crown of thorns
Bowed to one side; his desperate, aching arms,
His pain emblazoned hands, outstretched.
His body, lashed and scourged, sagged ever down,
And all about Him, their torture tools;
The cock that signaled Peter seemed to leer;
The vinegar reeked acrid at his feet;
The dice lay, grinning wickedly at him;
The spear to pierce His heart gleamed bright and keen;
The whips and axes, ropes and ladder too - -
The all bore witness to Our Savior’s pain.
The cloth Veronica held up to Him,
Which bore the imprint of that weary face - -
That, too, attested to His woes.
About Him, all was still and blood-besmeared;
But as His pain-racked body first grew cold
A host of angels seemed to hover ‘round;
And God the Father blessed His mighty son
And all those sacrificial implements
Became, by Jesus’ death upon the crucifix,
The shining means to save men’s souls.
At first a few alone believed Him God,
But more and more became His followers
Until that lonely figure of Christ crucified
Is now in all the world the most beloved.
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