Friday, April 14, 2017

But I Fear I Am Barabbas

His robe hanging about Him,
His face bloodied by a crown
That pierced the skin around His eyes;
All our sins, painful to wear,
Carried in the weight of a tree He chose to bear-
Up the hill, and down the street,
Abandoned by His Bride,
The sting of wood against His flesh,
The lashes hugging His sides.
"Don't let it happen, God in Heaven,
It isn't right." said I,
While at once seeing my reflection
In His tormented eye-
Oh, to be Veronica, wipe His Blood and tears away-
To be anybody in that crowd, crying out His name
And not with hate, oh, never hate,
But love for Love Himself.
But I fear I am Barabbas, that I would rather Him than me,
And watching hope of freedom die,
Think that I go free.
I fear that I am Peter,
Denying One whose life saved mine;
I fear that I am Judas,
With a kiss to commit a crime;
I fear I am the Pharisees,
And love the law without its Heart.
I know that I am all of these,
And, knowing, fear at last
That I could never wash His feet with tears,
Nor anoint His head.
I cannot seem to mourn Him, yet still-
Believe Him- dead-
Would that I could kiss Him,
Would my soul be honest then.
Would I loved Him perfectly,
Even and especially when
That love would pierce me, as a sword,
Rent curtains into two,
See His Mother weeping in the rain,
And drive me to weep there, too.
Would I loved Him perfectly,
Enough to repent that much;
Would I could be there with Him today,
And watch as I crucified Love.

Written last year on Holy Saturday. 

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