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.