One learns a rhythm in pain. In the slowed
seemingly endless hurting, meter shows.
Within its misery, its beating throes
provide the throbbing tempo for the bowed
and bleeding back that carries the hallowed
and pond'rous weight of his crude cross which sows
all human hope. A searing pain that grows
and spasms from the sins on death's broad road.
So with each sin the pain is wrought anew.
The cross's weight with human pride augments.
But this you bear with the love that is true,
redeeming all from our grim self-torments.
And yet again we who love you as Lord
succumb to the faults which have your back scored.

How long remains your mercy? And how long
your patience? How many times will you bless
the hands that slap you, forgive and caress
the child who spits in your face? Human wrong
is tireless, to what length will you prolong
your suff'ring? Each day Adam's breed sings less
of love and more of self, thereby to press
finite conceits on the infinite song:
The song of the heavens before all time-
The voiceless hymn that love ever intones-
A psalm lost with our inherited crime-
The missing music for which each soul groans.
To give us this song you erase sin's pains,
and cleansed by your blood, we may sing love's strains.

Yet in the tune of time, they hie their cries
enjoying the frenzy of this day's fest.
In rowdy song to Roman wrong, they pest
with insults he, who'll soon wear death's dull eyes.
What comedy his awkward gait. Starved flies
harass his thorn-pricked brow. For added zest
he trails his cross, where his raw back will rest.
There, splinter pierced, he'll gasp his breathless sighs.
The distant heavens hide behind the sun's
domain and leave sol's glare to sap all strength.
Yet, He whose love man's frightened ego shuns
Lifts up the form of mercy's width and length.
The doubters mock. Endures the Father all.
His love for us allows his Son to fall.