On tattered knees, with trembling hands His company lay sleeping
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His anguish turning sweat to blood, still no one sees Him weeping
By moonlight soldiers circle round the unsuspecting garden
And take by force the silent lamb who’ll die to give them pardon
In rusted chains He guiltless stands before old Pontius Pilot
Who sees no crime but scourges Him to calm the angry riot
His blood pours out from ragged flesh and crown-like thorny halo
From distant hill the cock does crow while Peter tries to stay low
A scurried band of recent brothers hide in darkened corners
Avoiding chains or scourge or death, this fellowship of mourners
Awaiting word from gossip’s tongue, while hiding in the shadows
They don disguise to gaze upon their Savior at the gallows
Where now the hope they firmly held of honor in His kingdom?
They dreamed of riches, joy and fame not torches, shackles, ransom
Are these, the hands that fed the crowds, now flinching and stigmatic?
And hair-washed feet with death-perfume a prophecy emphatic?
Yet morning glow to grievers comes to light the empty chamber
For just one man did conquer death to grant us this disclaimer
Should we believe in Him and love all people as commanded
At judgment seat, yet guilt assured, by Him we’ll be unhanded
Here, I share, with stark honesty, my life.