Taken in nights stillness, after a prayer he had spoke,
to be tried for the wrongs he did not commit.
The jury laughed and ridiculed, he was the joke,
they let a guilty free, for him, death befit.
His punishment was great and brutal;
whip was lain lashing, flesh was torn.
In agony he suffered, relief futile;
his fate sealed, the day he was born.
Given a crown of many thorns upon his head,
a tree he must carry to Calvary peak.
The crowds they spat as he bled,
to his knees he fell; cold and weak.
Another came to carry the cross;
head down the hail of stones.
The angry inflamed crowd would toss.
On and on he dragged his bones.
On Calvary hill the crowd does wait;
his wounds too many to be counted.
Three driven nails will seal his fate,
upon the tree he was mounted.
The thunder rolls; a lightning flash.
"Forgive them Father," his last breath.
His side is pierced and soldiers lash,
blood not red; marks his death.
Three trimesters of morn, noon and night,
he settled in an earthly womb.
But his spirit was brilliant with light,
when they approached the door to his tomb.
The word went forth "Christ lives!"
"Salvation his sweet spilt blood gives!"