A Poem for Good Friday
Many questions were asked of him,
though no answer was heard.
Pilate pressed him to respond,
but Jesus spoke not a word.
As prophesied by Isaiah,
like a lamb he was silent.
Which angered the crowd even more,
and they began to riot.
Governor Pilate faced the Jews,
and in order to honor custom,
told them that at their choosing,
he would release one prisoner among them.
He knew that Jesus was delivered
out of envy, malice and vice.
But the crowd choose Barabbas,
shouting “Crucify Jesus Christ.”
Pilate washed his hands before them,
saying “I am innocent of this man’s blood.”
The crowd said “Let his blood be upon us,
and upon our sons.”
They stripped off his own garments,
placed on him a robe and crown.
And then pretended to worship,
before him kneeling down.
They placed on his head
a crown made of thorns.
Then they spat, hit and slapped him,
and mocked him to scorn.
They compelled the man Simon
to carry his cross.
And divided his garments,
by casting lots.
They made for him a sign,
placed over his head.
“This is Jesus, King of the
Jews” the words read.
Thieves were crucified with him,
on his left and his right.
One was loud and boastful,
the other more humble, contrite.
“We are guilty of our crimes,
and deserve to die this way.”
And when Jesus saw his faith,
promised paradise that day.
“He cannot save himself” they mocked,
as his blood fell to the ground.
But they were crucifying an innocent,
in whom no guilt was found.
This was God’s plan of salvation,
established before there was time.
Each event had been prophesied,
and now fell perfectly in line.
The trial, the false witness,
his hanging on a tree;
It was all prophesied clearly
in Isaiah fifty-three.
So the words of their mocking
are actually true, you see.
He could not save himself, for
on the cross… he saved me.