There was a crowd in the streets, and a tumult.
Something was happening. I didn’t care.
I was coming home from work on the farm.
I was going to be late; my wife wanted me there.
Soldiers pulled me from the crowd.
For a moment, I wondered what I’d done.
Then I looked into the press, and I saw Him.
And I knew, I wasn’t the one.
They wanted me to help with the cross.
I didn’t want to; I wanted to be off home.
But the Romans had their way; they always do.
I took the cross; He wasn’t alone.
I was reluctant, I was afraid.
And yet there was something about Him that awed me.
When we reached Golgotha, the Romans let me go.
And yet, I couldn’t go—something held me.
They drove the bitter spikes into His hands.
I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care.
Yet I was compelled to Him by something irresistible,
Though I’d rather have been anywhere else but there.
I saw His pain; His blood; His Passion.
And something inside me came to peace.
This was no ending, but our beginning.
For who would have dreamed that by His pain, we’d find release?