They led Him down to Calvary,
broken, bruised and wounded.
He was beaten and scourged,
whipped by their cold, calloused hand.
Despised and rejected by them,
He was taken as a lamb to the slaughter.
They openly mocked and mistreated
and in oppression and affliction,
He quietly bore the pain of their grief.
The crowd roared with harshness,
“Crucify! Crucify!” yet no man came to His side.
In innocence He bore sins and sorrows,
the cross weighed heavy on his back.
He was nailed, pierced and crushed,
and then in agony, He gave up the ghost.
We read and observe,
we recount the old words,
we pause and we wonder,
“Just how could it be?”
Where was their heart,
were they really that course,
how blind were their eyes
to the Man they led to the cross?
And I think, “What of me?”
Had I been standing there,
what might my reaction have been?
Oh, I never would have marched,
and called, “Crucify this man!”
how appalling and bitter the thought.
But today comes to mind,
and my head drops with shame,
do my actions still crucify him?
Am I beating and kicking His bruises and scars,
despising and calling out names?
Do dark, ugly sins, hidden down deep,
keep pushing the thorns in His skull?
Is it my hammer of ill-will, I harbor inside,
pounding the blows to the nails?
What of my attitude, small though it is,
is it piercing the sword in His side?
My lack of devotion, my heart less than contrite,
is it whipping and scourging his back?
Does His head hang with shame while He cries,
over the pride in my actions and words?
Unforgiveness, bitterness, and so much more,
am I crushing him low with my blows?
Am I swinging the whip and calling the names,
with my heart filled with mire and deceit?
Do I crucify Him over and over again
and yet think I would not do the same?
“Jesus!” I cry, as I kneel at His feet,
“Forgive me, forgive me today!
Forgive me for swinging that long, brutal whip,
while I accused others of causing your pain.
You hung on the cross with your head bending low,
and it was my eyes you saw staring back.
It was my sins you bore and my ugly, dark heart,
when you cried, ‘Father forgive, they don’t know!”
Then with love in his eyes, He stretched forth his hand,
and held mine with forgiveness and grace.
Thank you for loving me in my lowest of low,
for staying and taking the blame.
Thank you for walking that long, lonely road,
for dying that slow painful death.
Thank you for rising and setting me free,
Hallelujah, you’re coming again.