Poetry

Now everyone was nervous here and not a thing made sense. 
The Judge had entered quietly. The room was very tense. 
"Let's only hear the gospel truth and accusations quench! 
This court is now in session!" said 'His Honor' from the bench. 

The 'Whip' was not at all deterred and spoke up suddenly, 
"Alive, He was, when I was done - untied and then set free! 
But I had noticed something else when He had left my place. 
I saw Him with the rugged 'Cross'. Now that's your real case!" 

The 'Cross' responded bluntly and without an ounce of tact, 
"It wasn't me, Your Honor sir, and that is just a fact! 
I didn't do a single thing and really, I did care. 
I merely was the backdrop for the 'Nails' had held Him there!" 

The 'Nails', three, were hence accused but chimed in unison, 
"It wasn't us who had Him killed (God's one and only Son). 
When all the three of us looked up, the truth had come to light - 
that wicked "Crown' had pierced His scalp and made a gruesome sight!" 

Then hushed, the crowd, who set their eyes on such a cruel 'Crown' - 
but it had sought the mercy of the Judge with sorry frown. 
And then it weaved so carefully a short and subtle lie, 
"It wasn't I who killed Him sir, the 'Whip' caused Him to die!" 

And so it was that blame was passed around, around again - 
so tell me, "What had killed Him then - just plain and simple sin?" 
Yes, then that Judge, with piercing eye, had raised his brow at me, 
and said, "You are the guilty one! I sentence you to be..." 

But then that very instant, a gentle voice was heard. 
His voice had calmed the courthouse down - and every heart was stirred. 
"Release those who've repented and were faithful through and through. 
For I have paid the highest price and saved their souls too." 

The Judge slammed down His gavel hard - and said, "I will it so!" 
And that is where this story ends. Are you prepared to go? 
Don't be the Whip, Cross, Nails or Thorns- who passed their guilt along - 
who tried to blame somebody else and claimed they did no wrong. 

The heart you have you made yourself. You're humble or you're proud - 
so if acceptance you must have, you're lost just like the crowd. 
How long has pride now stole your soul? Days, weeks or months, or years? 
Don't pass the blame to someone else, but show the Lord some tears... 

©2013 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
http://www.ganderpoems.org/ 

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