by Richard Cassidy
(Winston-Salem, NC, USA)
Who killed my Lord that day the sun refused to shine?
Who falsely accused him and called him blasphemer and liar?
Who knit the thorns into a cruel, vicious crown?
Who owned the fists that pounded and plummeted without relief or care?
Whose hammer drove the nails that pierced his righteous flesh?
Whose eyes mocked as He stumbled down the lonely road?
Who dug the hole, the resting place for that cross?
Who made the dice, the lots, which were cast for His clothes?
Who heard those screams, those awful cries of pain?
Who saw, who saw that last breath, heard those last words?
“I did, I did,” I say, “I did.”
Each and every lie I told; every penny I stole,
Each and every vile, ugly sin that I used to hold so dear,
With every mean and hateful word; with every vindictive intent,
Seeing plain as day, selfishly leading down the dark ravenous path,
Whenever I wished my parents dead and told them how I hated them,
Was it malice or ignorance that picked up the sword?
Did you cover your face in mourning, like the sun for its maker?
Each day, in death, I thank God for the mercy and grace on that day, that beautiful, ugly day.
And the story continues . . . .