They found the innocent 

guilty. 

Pilate knew!

But people-added to the band wagon 

overlooking 

truth, flew 

to add to His affliction. 

Spite was their addiction.

That weekend-started out so dark 

where He hung on a tree, 

a T-shaped form of bark. 

He died between two sinners. 

One accepted Him, there, as He hung 

in agony and pain. 

The other denied Him, there, 

mocking His aim.

The sun, the stars, closed their eyes. 

Some saw the consequences of their lies.

His ordeal was over, there. 

He still lives, do you know where?

© 2002 Carol Dee Meeks 

c_pmeeks@hotmail.com http://home.comcast.net/~pkmeeks/