My poem: All For Me

“Father, if You are willing, take this cup from Me;…
yet not My will, but Yours be done.”
Earnestly, He prayed in anguish, agonizing with God;
great drops of sweat fell from His brow, like blood.
Alone He petitioned His Father, while His followers slept,
yet He prayed not for His will to be done, but His Father’s.
The soldiers came, led by one of His disciples,
who betrayed his Lord with a kiss.
He did not resist, but meekly went with the mob,
to the mockery of His trial.
They took Him to Pilate, but he found no fault;
he sent Him to Herod, who sent Him back.
He was flogged, given a cruel crown of thorns,
and a purple robe--the King of the Jews was He.
Pilate washed his hands, signifying he was innocent;
the people cried, “His blood be upon us, and our children.”
Upon His shoulders they placed the heavy cross,
but He couldn’t stand beneath the load, and fell.
Finally they reached Golgotha--The Skull,
and drove spikes into His hands and feet:
the hands which had touched and healed, and blessed;
the feet which had walked many miles, doing good.
Into the air they raised Him upon the cross;
now He was suspended between earth and heaven,
between His Father and the people for whom He died.
Still, He prayed, “Father, forgive them.”
His heart still reached out to others, not Himself;
He remembered His mother; He promised the criminal life.
He died for all mankind, for a world of sinners.
Clouds rolled in, thunder rumbled throughout the air,
lightning streaked the sky; nature showed her protest.
God withdrew His loving arms--He had to do it.
The whole universe watched in horrified amazement,
the angels had to veil their faces, they couldn’t bear it.
Alone and separated from His Father He hung,
with the weight of the world’s sins upon Him.
They crushed the life out of Him, and the dreadful
pain of being separated from God killed Him.
The waiting throng mocked Him, and cried,
“If You are the Son of God, why don’t You save Yourself?”
He could have called a multitude of angels,
one would have been sufficient, to free Him;
but He chose to die, instead, in man’s place.
At last He could bear it no longer;
He cried, “It is finished!”, then bowed His head and died.
The universe stood back in amazement.
God had really allowed Satan to kill His Son!
He was taken from the cross and laid to rest
in a new garden tomb over Sabbath.
But Sunday, death’s chains were broken;
Christ rose the victorious King; the sacrifice was sufficient.
All heaven rang out in triumph and praise,
redemption had taken place; salvation was complete.
Oh, amazing fact that while He was in the tomb,
His wounds started to heal--for Christ’s blood can never die.
But He bares the scars of love for eternity.
They are constant reminders of the price He’s paid.
If only one man had sinned, still He would have died.
Infinite love; amazing thought!
My sins were born by my Creator, my Brother;
He became my sins: impatience, anger, selfishness…
He took them on that I might live.
But what is more, He promised to return to take me HOME.
He paid the price, all for me…all for me.

written April 25, 1981

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