A city, a street, a spot,
a driven man and cheering mob.
Stoned, spat upon, boundless scorn,
a loud cry and blood dropping from a thorn.
The king’s crown, a wreath of hurt,
they want to break him, they want his heart.
Driving him further up the mountain,
shouldering the burden, an agonizing run
and up there set his cross, now done.
Now they drive the nails,
through foot and hand,
blinded by hate and jealousy,
they wanted the man’s end.
He dies there on the cross,
they speak of resurrection.
About some 2,000 years ago
has this been done.
Today I still see this man,
as once, very long ago,
see him still suffering so
and see him hanging everywhere,
nailed and screwed undisguised,
his freedom still deprived,
as a saint besought, they forgot,
what he taught.
Do not kill, do not think to steal,
covetousness is not his will,
do not lie, do not betray,
a promise do not break or else,
to love your neighbors you sure may
as if it were yourself.