Friday Afternoon: His Passion

Updated on October 15, 2018
The Passion of Christ
The Passion of Christ

Friday Afternoon


I woke up on a flat rugged surface,
Where pathways were my bed,
The warm air caressed my face,
While the sun shines at the highest peak.

Yells of the crowd,
Outburst my ear,
With anguish and wrath,
Neglect with fear.

They stand beside,
On a scorching path.
As if waiting for a procession,
But they're on a rant.

Is it the emperor?
With the golden throne?
No, that man was bath with blood,
And crowned with thorn.

It can't be,
I knew this man,
He saw me last night,
Before I'm gone.

He's the man on my dreams,
Who prays on garden untimid.
Kneeled for hours,
Waiting to be arrested.

He's on my dream,
Who made life from ashes.
But why he's chained,
Eating whips and lashes.

Now, as he walks on a burden,
Lifting the world unpause.
Flogged behind on bloody skin,
Carrying the cross.

I witness his arms,
Dying eyes and cracking lips.
As if I'm staring on a living corpse,
In silent cries with blood red tears.

Around him are the daredevils,
In silver armor and sharp sword.
They are Pilate's mischievous lads,
Whose atrocity are words.

He stares at me,
Beyond the crowd.
He gave me a smile,
And then falls down.

Is this a dream?
Everything was in slow motion,
As he drops like a cabbage,
Like I heard a sorrowful song.

I ran towards him,
But something stops,
This facade of backs,
Behind this flock, I'm locked.

He's tired and exhausted,
Thirsty and starved.
Yet, he still gives off strength,
To lift and stand.

How strong he is,
Even in the hardest storm,
Still stands and fight,
Telling that life must go on.

A strong scourge,
Again damped his back.
It patched another cut,
And bleeds a lot.

He drops again,
Knees were trembling,
He can no longer stand,
But demons still whipping.

A moment later,
Here comes a woman,
Who wipe his red-dyed face,
With the cloth on his hand.

He lifts again,
This leviathan,
But few yards later,
He refuses to stand.

Then a moment,
A man came out,
Grabbing a hand,
And stand up.

I watch his eyes,
Helping the poor.
Carrying the intersecting woods,
Giving an open door.

The mournful parade,
Runs towards the hill.
People's emotion a mixed,
Some in sorrow, others are chill.

Humanity is in terror,
Disregarding gratitude,
To someone who made sacrifices,
This is how people are rude.

He was needed,
When people need,
But in his darkest hours,
No one remembers his deeds.

A woman scream,
In tears and agony,
Heart's in grief,
Overflowed in melancholy.

She has a pleasant face,
Along with her brownish wavy hair.
Her visage was covered by reddish foundation,
Caused by a flooded tear.

She claimed to stop,
The suffering of his son.
But shaitan's soldier,
Won't listen to her stand.

On the little mountain,
The sun fires fiery light.
As if it burns everything,
that trudge its path.

He drops the cross,
On top, he's lying,
Spreading his arms,
Like a bald eagle's wings.

My eyes are blinded further,
Refuses to watch the next scene.
The loud bang on the collision of nail and hammer,
Makes him scream in agony.

I looked at the direction of the woman,
Who kneeled looking his son.
Her palms wrapped her face,
Hiding those tears in a race.

I glance at him at once,
The feeling I can't deny.
Its raining,
But under my gloomy eyes.

With nails longer than fingers,
Buried pass through his hands,
The howling pain that lingers,
Preventing him to stand.

Wounds are like tattoos,
In his pale body.
Each was fresh,
And all were bloody.

The rosy flesh,
Are swelling at stake,
Even in a breath,
It causes too much ache.

As he dwells in death,
The sun burning his flesh.
Crucified along with two other men.
This is a heartbreaking test.

With his surrendering body,
I know he won't last.
Trembling with his uncountable wounds,
Time runs fast.

The woman wails,
Seeing his son.
His head faces the ground,
Its almost done.

After those seven last words,
He rests at last,
Forgiving all the sins,
Fulfilling his task.

Looking at the crucified corpse,
Everyone outburst in tear as they gather.
Their King rests back on his throne.
Not on the living world but in his father's.

His words will remain,
On each other's heart.
The things he did,
Will be our path.

He cleanses our soul and sin,
Through his mumbling pain.
As he leaves the world,
Back in heaven.

A sudden quake,
Trembles the place.
Ruined the temple,
As he promises.

As the shaking stop,
I drop on a crack.
Falling down on the abyss,
Like on hell I was dragged.

I drop hard on a floor,
As I open my eyes,
Behind is my bed,
And a frame of Jesus Christ.

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