Beneath the olive trees, a trembling plea
“Let this cup pass…” yet blood, not tears, fell free.
The ground drank deep His sorrow’s bitter stain,
As stars recoiled from unrelenting pain.
A kiss betrayed the torchlight’s jagged glare,
Cold chains embraced the Hands that fashioned air.
The Sanhedrin’s scorn, like serpents, hissed lies,
While mercy pooled in His undaunted eyes.
They dressed Him in robes of mock-royal jest,
A crown of thorns to bruise His holy brow.
“Hail, King of Jews!” they laughed, and struck His chest
The God who breathed their souls bore their malice now.
No friend stood near when Pilate washed his hands;
The mob’s roar swelled “Crucify!” demands.
The lash’s teeth tore flesh to scarlet streams,
Each stripe a dirge for souls He’d die to redeem.
He climbed the hill, the crossbeam gouging deep,
Each splintered step a vow He chose to keep.
The nails screamed home His wrists, His feet to wood
That groaned beneath the weight of sin’s dark flood.
“Save Yourself!” they jeered, as heaven held its breath,
While thieves reviled Him, bargaining with death.
Vinegar raised, His parched lips met the sting,
Yet still He whispered love to those who swung the sting.
No sun dared watch the sky wept black and wild,
As earth convulsed for her Creator, reviled.
“It is finished…” the cry that split the night
A shattered heart, the cost of mercy’s fight.
They pierced His side, drew blood and water’s toll,
Then cast dark lots to claim His seamless robe.
No stone-carved dirge could mourn this depth of loss
The Lamb, once slain, bore every wound, every cross.
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