Contemplating Good Friday

There exists a holy hill where grace-filled men may die

And there upon it, will transcend, for His glory-sake not “I”

Gathered there my rocks and stones, the burdens I bemoan

Piled up, they boast a weight measured far beyond my own

The hill is lined in mockery, disparaging these thieves

Yet I alone detest far more, heart beating- pounding shrieks

The echo of cackle and cudgel, vibrating noise unto my knees

And all along I hear the cries of my own resounding pleas

This scene of mercy pouring forth, of innocence to die

I beg of my own reasoning, my God, I wonder why

Tempestuous the storm of wrath, even greater is the swell

That covers o’er the burdened back, sends unrighteousness to hell

Now here I lay against the throne, two blood-soaked beams and “I”

To meet upon this holy hill where grace-filled men may die.