A Poem For Good Friday

The Devil At The Cross

With foul and mutilated joy it sees
His broken body breathe its ragged last
And hang, a bloody pennant, from a mast
Of cruel wood; anticipating ecstasy.

Yet empty is the longed for victory.
Mirth dissipates, once thrilled by hellish pain
as the scourge tore open skin, meat, and vein
Or thorns impaled His brow in agony.

Is that a smile upon His murdered face
Besmirched with blood and sweat and noble tears?
How can a corpse so lightly wear disgrace?

The longed for revel has not crowned it king,
Prideful glee gives way to gnawing fear.
It cannot grasp the strength of suffering.

The nails that pierce His shattered hands and feet
Seem to pierce its being deep as iron spear
did Him made somehow mighty in defeat.