Good Friday

Pressing into tender crowning flesh, wound with hate and disdain sending rivulets, crimson staining the face of grace.

Deep each is ground till our sins between these thorns bound setting upon his lofty brow at last there found.

Lashed between words of scorn, burdened greater than man can bear, this host of hope none now despair.

Eyes filling with salty crimson streams, stinging passing flaring nostrils grasping for air, onto cracked lips straining in bitter tastes, crossed with matted hair.

Upward plodding, metals thongs into flesh lashed constantly into aching muscles ground, struggling on with greater sin still unborn.

Pressed to aid, a stranger for whom he came, earthly sorrows powerful shoulders bow, till deaths summit, mallets swinging hells victory nail .

Casting one of three shadows now, below tears and fears furrow brows.

Calls for angles , castigation, and redemption, final breath, a piercing bloodless blow a long night’s day is at its end.

Days till victory his hope reborn, faith renewed in a face once torn. Under a stone long since rolled away, struggling faiths a form they seek.

Finding in one face unpained, the hope of faith long ago restrained.

From a grave beneath the earth, to heaven’s welcome hearth, victory over death in resurrection won. In resurrection won. WAM

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