Before time
your counsels chose
that you would lose
eternal ties
with your one
and only Son.
Not sparing Him,
you let the whips
fall and the blood drip.
Judges condemned
as the priests quipped.
On a dark hill,
like Abraham,
you left your Lamb.
No bright angel
unveiled a ram
snared in thickets
by its horns.
Instead, the thorns
on Christ’s head caught
the sacrifice
of God’s own life.
Nails split
His wrists and feet
and severed sweet
communion, which
left you bereaved.
Not even birth
pangs compare to
what you went through
at your Son’s death.
Abba, thank you.*The form of this poem was borrowed from Hymne to God the Father by Ben Jonson.
See Ben Jonson's poem here: http://4umi.com/jonson/hymn
