Who was next to be crucified,
Sunday morning after the sunrise?
Whose hands were fixed to that old tree,
On Sunday morning at Calvary?
What had he done to end up there,
Murdered, blasphemed, or had an affair?
Had he raised his arms, cursed at Caesar,
Stolen those jewels, taken these furs?
Did he yell at the soldiers, who were guarding,
Cursing, screaming, fighting, warring?
Did the soldiers think this cross was just,
For a spiteful man full of rage and lust?
Did anyone on that Sunday morning,
Think of the mother still in mourning?
Did anyone remember as the cross was raised,
Those who anguished for days and days?
When he hung in the air with his back to the cross,
Did he think of his life, of the pain, of the loss?
Did he know that his blood covered stains from the past,
And a Nazarene’s had been the blood laid down last?
At the foot of the cross did a man stand and holler,
“You can be freed from the muck where you waller.”?
Did he know that the blood, his blood now covers,
Can cover his sins and the sins of all others?
Did the soldiers know as they pulled out old nails,
As they rushed to the prison, as they reached the tight jails,
That a man would soon die nailed to that board,
Just as the last man rose up as the Lord?
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