The scowl of the skies—
the black and churning clouds
like vultures rounding me.
The howl of the crowds,
their dark and burning eyes
with, “Guilty!” hounding me.
The depths of grief I know,
like swords thrust to the hilt.
The plea upon my lips—
a shattered cry of guilt.
And still the deadly blow
Beats on my heart like whips.
Beneath the brooding sky
I fall. The thunders roar
as bursting bombs of light
“Just strike me now!” I cry.
Oh, to make things right!
A hush, and I look up,
surprised to gaze on Him—
my Judge, bent down to tend:
Who is there to condemn?
For I have drunk this cup.
Arise and live, My friend.
melenoria 