Good Friday poem

Good FridayI, too,
while He prays
and sweats blood in agony.
Somehow never see His
anguished eyes
outstretched arms
“Come to me?”

And I, too,
weep bitter tears
when the shame rips my heart,
not after cock crow,
but as the wine burns my throat.

He grits His teeth
while we still pound nails
through hands, and weary heart.

And, tears brimming,
He still holds wide His arms.



Poetry is one way to communicate a deep truth to a perceptive audience. If your church or ministry needs liturgies, readings, or other writings to carefully, creatively convey a seasonal message, contact LifeLines.

11 thoughts on “Good Friday poem”

  1. My spirit winced at the image of Jesus gritting His teeth in pain while I pounded more nails . . . viewing my sins that way reveals their full ugliness. Your words helped me realize that sometimes I take my sins far too lightly.

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