Look: such horror, torn, then tortured
by the scourge across his back,
by the torments and derision,
and the hate that twisted fact.
See our God, derided, dying,
smeared with blood and sweat and tears,
hanging in a robe of loving,
now surrounded by his fears.
Night now sharp as early morning,
darkest just before the dawn,
yet the daylight should be streaming,
clouded by this perfect storm.
By a storm of human hatred
bent on killing all that's good,
by a crass and simple action:
nailing human flesh to wood.
But the Christ who hung there dying,
this weak man upon a cross,
is the God who loves us wholly,
loves beyond all human loss.