He,d just turned thirty four
not too many days before.
He knelt and prayed in a garden
knowing well what lay in store.
Arrested, he was dragged away,
his friends all fled in fear.
Not one man left to stand with him,
not one to shed a tear.

"You self righteous bastard!"
from the lips of men were spat!
They didn't live the moral life he did
and they knew that.
By his bright example
their guilt was amplified
The prejudice within their hearts
not quelled until he died.

The cat of nine tails tore his flesh
a crown of thorns brought pain.
The fists of bullies pounded him
over and over again!
The facial hair from off his chin
was torn from it's roots,
His body bruised with passion
from many Roman boots.

He uttered not a single word
in his defence that day.
His blood stained footprints marked the path
as he was led away.
A burdensome cross he shouldered,
dragged on only by his will,
To a place outside the gates
known eversince as Calv'ry Hill.

Six inch nails impalled his flesh
as they nailed him to the wood;
Men mocking him and jeering,
choosing evil over good.
A spear tip brought forth water
as onlookers raised a shout,
The body of Jesus of Nazereth
had finally been bled out.

As he hung there dying
he asked this prayer for YOU,
" FORGIVE THEM FATHER IN HEAVEN,
FOR THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO