Poetry

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You called me,
You set me free,
You made me see the error of my ways,
You held my hand when I started to stray.
I worry about tomorrow and what will come,
But 2000 years ago you knew what would happen when the journey of Calvary had begun.
You knew that they would beat you,
And you‘d be the object of their twisted fun,
But still you called “Father forgive them for they know not what they’ve done”
So they beat you harder, they took your words as defiancy,
But you knew that they were just blind and couldn’t see.
In the midst of pain,
You loved those who were hurting you the most,
More of the guards joined in,
As the others started to boast.
Blood seeping from your wounds,
Forming a pool of blood at you feet,
But You were focusing on the work you had to complete.
Dragging you in chains like you were a dangerous man,
They took you to that angry and stirred up clan,
Letting the deceived choose if you were to be a free man.
You knew what they would say,
You knew what they would do,
You knew they wouldn’t listen,
You knew they didn’t want to believe in you.
Pilate tried to wash his hands of their decision,
Knowing you’d done no wrong,
But his conscience would know,
What you’d endured all night long.
What were your thoughts as you stared at that ravenous crowd?
You could just about stand due to wounds you endowed,
Were you ashamed of those you created?
That should have made you so proud.
They then took you to prepare you for the walk of death,
Preparation included punching you and kicking you,
Until you struggled for breath,
They gave you the crown they thought you deserved,
Long Thorns fashioned and curved.
As if the pain you was in was not enough,
They pushed that crown down upon your head,
They hammered it down until you bled.
Now stripped, wounded and beaten beyond recognition,
And all this was done in the name of Religion!
Uphill you struggled with your cross weighing you down,
Bleeding and naked,
Wearing those thorns made into a crown.
Stumbling and falling your face in the dirt,
People laughing and pointing at the fact you were hurt.
Arriving at the final place,
Your friends barely recognising your battered face.
You Mother watching them throwing her little boy to ground,
Watching them pummel your wrists with those nails.
Mighty God within a man,
You suffered more then we will ever understand,
Your Word says the wages for sin is death,
You took that from me with your last breath.
It should not have been you,
It should’ve been me.
But you went through all this,
Just to set me free.
Thank you Father for sending your only begotten son,
That I might live in him as he lives in you,
So together we may live as one.

Laura-Jane Martin

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