This Was the Son of God

The sky resigns; a silent kind of cry

that lies outside the mire of our lies

and uncontrolled, cannot be rolled

into the fabric of our sinful lives.

The sun has sunk in protest or in fears,

as noonday freezes sight with night

and now the rays that filled our days

 strike us with the blackness of our years.

How long had heaven with holiness held back

the hallowed glow of hatred on our sin?

Now how the wrath, with terror casts

its pallor pall of judgment on our heads!

He bends His head, and breaks the dead

of breathless silence in the barren air,

bears his soul to God, a shout, that bursts

upon the crowd. He breathes His last, and bows.

But deep inside the wreck of ruined pride,

a Roman general standing in his place

beholds his wrong, and with redemption strong

the veil of death is rent before his face.

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