The night was cold and wet;
Furious the heavenly skies
On the cross was the Redemeer’s rise
Who had not revealed his powers yet.
The barmy man seemed himself
More glorious than his Father!
And even wiser than his Mother;
Yet, Christ denied uncovering his true self.
He hung there like a worn-out rag
And a ‘crown of prejudice’ on his head
Mother moaning as she had bred.
Did Christ then raise his powers’ sag?
His hand bled- the red blood
Covered the iron in his arms;
Two men- kindly he charms.
And yet he let not his powers flood.
Not a piece of attire on his chest,
Whole day he waited for Death;
Or rather, death waited for his breath;
But Christ let his powers rest.
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