annie oddflower

The Cross

An innocent man, beaten,
offers no resistance.
They lead him through the streets,
taunting and snapping whips,
he is their beast to be tamed,
a self-proclaimed servant.

It is a painful and slow way to die,
crucified on a Roman cross.
I want to close my ears
to the agony of those words,
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani,
my God, my God, why
have you forsaken me?

How alone he must have felt,
And yet one who will listen hears,
Father forgive them,
they know not what they do.

I come to Easter, satisfied to celebrate
the victory of resurrection,
and dare to turn my head
from the ugliness of the cross, wanting
only to see the empty tomb,
to hear the shouts,
He has risen. He has risen.

Yet there is a disturbing image:
My Saviour, the risen Lord, hangs
bruised and bleeding, rejected.
Alone, the sinless one bears my sin.
Facing the cross, I wonder,
How could they nail Him to that tree?

Turning away,
I see the hammer in my hand.