For thirty coins a man exchanged
His soul’s eternal cost.
In candle light, the plan arranged;
The healer would be crossed.
The lion’s jaws were opened wide.
“Crucify him!” They brayed
His mother swayed, then bowed and cried.
He marched in grim parade.
A Roman shoved, then pounded nails.
In scorn, they wagged their heads.
Amid His wrenching joints and wails,
Soldiers poked with spearheads.
“My God, my God! Forsaken me?
Have You not heard my cry?”
The Son of Man felt their fury,
Hung up by men to dry.
In Potter’s Field the grasses grow
Although the place is lost.
The Place of Skull marks his deathblow,
Where death and life crisscrossed.