Good Friday

I started writing this poem a week ago. I didn’t even realize it was going to be about today until Sunday. Sorry it took so long. =P

Anxiously waiting, fearful of death
The spirit is willing, not so the flesh.

Arrested and judged by sinful men,
Then beaten and mocked, then beaten again.

Allowed no rest, You’re taken outside
For once again You will be tried.

Since no fault was found they took You away
To see what another would have to say.

King Herod holds a “trial” by name.
And here the verdict is just the same.

Now they must take You back once again
To the place from which You were last sent.

Pilate sentence You to be flogged,
Hoping to please the angry mob.

Exhausted and weary, broken and tired,
A moment of rest was all You desired.

But You were brought before the people once more
And weak from the beating You fell to the floor.

The people there watching shouted aloud.
“Crucify Him!” was the cry of the crowd.

Trying to keep the nails from Your hands,
Not wanting to give in to their demands,

Trying to please the people he saw,
Pilate remembered a part of the law.

He gave them a choice between the two:
A murderer and the King of the Jews.

They shouted all the louder now.
“Free Barabbas!” shouts the crowd.

And so the decision had been made
And on Your back the beam was laid.

As splinters dig into Your skin
Your final journey now begins.

You struggled just to take a step
As people all around You wept.

You silently pray for the strength You lack
While the cross grows heavy on Your back.

Finally, the weight of the cross came down
And brought Your weary body to the ground.

The cross is too heavy, the burden too great.
Your body pinned down by this hideous weight.

Then right out of nowhere, the pressure is gone.
The cross has been lifted and now You go on.

You watch as a soldier transfers the beam
To the soldiers of a man from Cyrene.

As You stumble on, You hear the crowd’s scorns
Mocking Your soiled, imperfect form.

When You lift up Your weary head,
You see Your road has finally come to an end.

The cross is picked up and gently put down
While soldiers grab You and You’re thrown to the ground.

The breath knocked from Your lungs, the shred of Your back torn,
Your scalp impaled by ever-piercing thorns.

The soldiers drive nails into Your wrists with violence.
Cries of pain and agony shattering the silence.

As the cross is lifted into place,
The crowd mocks Your groans of pain.

Then Your feet put together, the nail driven in
Piercing through Your tender skin.

The soldiers’ tasks are finally through.
“Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”

Some people are shocked, amazed and perplexed.
The Pharisees are angry, confused and vexed.


The crowd starts to lessen, some start to leave,
While You hang there, struggling, trying to breathe.

Inexpressible agony, turmoil, and shame.
Every motion causing more searing pain.

Then You look up and see the very last face
You could ever wish to see in this place.

The face of a woman, stained with her tears.
The face of Your mother, now filled with fear.

The physical pain of pushing up to exhale,
The emotional pain of giving her to John’s care.

Your body sinks down, cramps take control.
You weary eyes closed, Your head hanging low.

This is the image of Your perfect love:
God’s punishment poured out on His perfect Son.

The sky starts to darken with no sign of clouds,
Scaring away most of the crowd.

Your tongue starts to swell, Your throat parched and dry,
And longing for water, You let out a cry.

What others call cruelty the soldiers called mercy:
Giving vinegar to a Man who was thirsty.

The hour has come. It’s finally the end.
You surrender You spirit to the Father’s hands.

Then pushing Yourself up the last time that day,
You cried, “It is finished!” The dept has been paid.

Now what does this have to do with me?
I believe He did this to set me free.

And I also believe that on that day,
He was thinking of me the entire way.

Every step, every wound, every drop of blood.
I know that He was thinking of us.

Every moment and second of that fateful day
He was thinking of each of us by name.

Every second of the day that He died
The face of a sinner flashed before His eyes.

That’s why He held on and went all the way.
“It is Finished!” He cried. The debt has been paid.