The diadem of pain
Which sliced your gentle face,
Three spikes piercing flesh and wood
To hold you in your place.
The need for blood, I understand.
Your sacrifice, I embrace.
But the bitter sponge, the cutting spear
The spit upon your face?
Did it have to be a cross?
Did not a kinder death exist
Than six hours hanging between life and death,
All spurred by a betrayer’s kiss.
“Oh, Father,” you pose,
heart-stilled at what could be,
“I’m sorry to ask, but I long to know,
did you do this for me?”
”He Chose the Nails,” by Max Lucado |
