30 March 2018 12:00 am
I looked upon Christ on the Cross
A mangled body, a broken frame,
This God _man subject to abject shame.
A crown of thorns, as droplets trickle
Of blood, sweat and tears co-mingled
A spear-thrust causes a trickle once again
As straining ribs and hanging arms
Reflect excruciating pain,
I pause to ponder; Why hangs he there?
Not Pilate, not the maddened mob, not even Judas Propelled him there.
‘twas my sins and mine alone that nailed him to the tree
That tree of salvation that redeemed me.
And yet what a poor return I make to thee
I humbly beseech; Oh Lord I grope, I seek
The spirit indeed is willing Lord
But the flesh is weak.
- Jeannette Cabraal