It was a horror—- that blood red day.
Stumbling, falling, on the stone hard way.
To Golgotha and terror,
By mob law for Juda’s error.
Rocky mount and storm sky met,
death trees planted, firm and set
With hanging fruit of human seed,
Sacrificed for mankind’s need.
Looking down with ebbing life,
On the grieving face of Mother,
His whispers cut—- with a ragged knife.
Later, in the dark of night,
Long after, the crowd’s ebbed slight,
She was empty of tears to cry.
Mary watched her heart’s whole die.
There was nothing they could say,
But take Him down
And carry away,
A beloved Messiah, lost that day.
They took him to a borrowed tomb,
Someone else’s death shelf room.
Bloody, torn, pale and still,
He lay there in the dark, cold chill.
And cloak drawn light,
She hurried softly,
Through the fading night.
At morning dawn
She crept along,
Down the path beneath the rise
As mourning doves began their cries.
In her hand an anointing jar,
Remembering a time long far
With her hair undone
Oh, but now—–
She would finish what she once begun.
Then she saw the stone rolled-way,
And a stranger turned to say,
“I am here,” “It is me.”
“Yes, yes” she could see.
She ran forth to touch the light,
He stood back at passion’s flight.
“Wait, wait, do not touch me."
“I am more than you can see”
"For I am not yet at Heaven’s gate.”
And, then she knew
As he smiled,
And was gone.