The Great War

from Herb o' Grace, an electronic edition

Good Friday, A.D. 33

Mother, why are people crowding now and staring?

Child, it is a malefactor goes to His doom,

To the high hill of Calvary He's faring,

And the people pressing and pushing to make room

Lest they miss the sight to come.

Oh, the poor malefactor, heavy is His load!

Now He falls beneath it and they goad Him on.

Sure the road to Calvary's a steep up-hill road --

Is there none to help Him with His Cross -- not one?

Must He bear it all alone?

Here is a country boy with business in the city,

Smelling of the cattle's breath and the sweet hay;

Now they bid him lift the Cross, so they have some pity:

Child, they fear the malefactor dies on the way

And robs them of their play.

Has He no friends then, no father nor mother,

None to wipe the sweat away nor pity His fate?

There's a woman weeping and there's none to soothe her:

Child, it is well the seducer expiate

His crimes that are so great.

Mother, did I dream He once bent above me,

This poor seducer with the thorn-crowned head,

His hands on my hair and His eyes seemed to love me?

Suffer little children to come to Me, He said --

His hair, his brows drip red.

Hurrying through Jerusalem on business or pleasure

People hardly pause to see Him go to His death

Whom they held five days ago more than a King's treasure,

Shouting Hosannas, flinging many a wreath

For this Jesus of Nazareth.