I have been working on a poem to commemorate the significance of Holy Week: specifically Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. It is written from the point of view of how Jesus may have felt during the events of His betrayal, trial, crucifixion, and ascension. We sometimes forget the humanity of Jesus, and the reality that He felt every bit of the emotionality and physicality of these events. This poem is an attempt to portray His humanity as respectfully as I can. Feel free to leave a request if you wish to use this poem during this Easter season. May He be glorified in these words.
A Moment of Humanity
In the chill of the night hour on My breath,
I see My words floating as they leave My chest,
rising like incense before the great test;
but heaviness clouds the words, I must confess.
In a moment of humanity I grasp for words,
for I know what the mission is-I will be hurt.
The very same voice that spoke the heavens into place
now chokes under the strain of its destined fate.
In a moment of humanity I have to ask,
“Is there any other way to now complete this task?
Abba, can you hear Me?” Nevertheless,
I am here to do My Father’s will-His business.
So much for friendship! They all fell asleep!
“The Spirit is willing but the flesh is truly weak!
Could you not watch and pray with Me this night?”
Alone, alone, alone
I face the fight.
In a moment of humanity I accept a kiss,
though not born of love or honor-a heartless twist.
My soul longs for someone dear to walk with Me;
a kiss becomes the cruelest form of mockery.
Over 600 soldiers have come to “handle” Me
(If they only knew I made them and I could set them free),
and with them, officers of the chief priests.
Priests of whom? They no longer represent of Me.
I know who they seek but I ask them anyway,
“Jesus of Nazareth,” My human name, they say.
But I reply, with all restraint, and voice My holy name,
“I AM HE,”
and they are thrown to the flattened clay.
A secretive trial is held for Me, the Prince of Life.
Accusers want answers to the questions they contrive,
but it is all that I can do to hold Creation’s voice.
For if the rocks cried out My name right now, the fearsome noise
would bring this place down to its knees in worship or in terror;
to crucify the Prince of Glory they would never dare.
Man would stay unredeemed; no, we must proceed,
so, I choose to hold My tongue and let them make Me bleed.
In a moment of humanity I hear the rooster crow;
What hurts worse-the striking fists or simply now to know
that someone who I showed My glory denies he ever knew
the transfigured Christ, his closest friend, his brother true.
The governor questions Me, examining for fault,
but since this trial is rigged, I do not answer him at all.
Akin to casting pearls to swine, I choose to hold My tongue
and let the prophecy unfold as it must be done.
I hide a smirk when he mentions his authority
and I have to remind him that it only comes from Me.
He doesn’t see the big picture-he only plays a role;
He doesn’t have a choice but to let events unfold.
And then, I’m struck by someone’s fist so hard that I see stars,
and as I stagger to steady Myself, I hear the crowd’s applause.
“Crucify! Crucify! Release Barrabbas tonight!”
Events unfold exactly how the ancients prophesied.
“This is the only way,” I still have have to tell Myself,
“To save My people from their consequence of sin in hell.”
Rome has made an art out of torture and of death,
and I, their greatest canvas, now display their skill bereft.
And as they nail me into lumber, searing pain ignites,
but it does not compare to the overwhelming spite
of taking on a billion cancers in the form of sin
for all mankind and for all time. They celebrate their “win.”
As hours grow, My thirst betrays Me like the treasurer;
a moistened sponge with vinegar is offered as a cure.
The throbbing ache within My joints heightens with each breath;
Hanging here in agony, I long for quickened death.
My body is pierced. My soul is pierced. Eternity awaits.
Yet, knowing this, I still am burdened by the crushing weight:
Abandonment, by friends, by all. The Father too seems mute.
“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me aloof?!”
Ichabod! The glory is gone! This God-forsaken place,
completely void of light divine, goes dark now at mid-day.
From noon till 3, darkness reigns-the temple veil is torn,
and with a final heave for breath, I yell with vocals worn:
“IT IS FINISHED!”
I cannot contain this new decree!
“Oh Grave, where is your victory? Oh Death, where is your sting?”
Vanquished is your stranglehold on life for evermore,
for I will rise in three days time and void your sepulcher.
The moment comes for Me to let My spirit leave this frame
for My impending victory march to magnify My name,
and in the bowels of Creation I proclaim the Truth
to every prisoner of the grave, for glory and reproof.
And when I finally manifest, three days beyond My kill,
and show My body glorified, unbridled by this realm,
I radiate within the presence of My closest friends
before the masses, mesmerized, watch Me soon ascend.
And at the right hand of My Father, I announce at last
that I have done His business well, and finalized the task
to bridge the chasm in between My Father and mankind;
Now all who worship Jesus Christ will gain My gift of life.
I ask you child, “Are you content with living for the grave?
Are the things you live for worth the sacrifice I made?
I conquered death, so why do you pursue the fruit of sin?
Come to Me; I promise you will never thirst again.”
© 2011 Brandon Scott Elrod