There They Crucified Him
By Llewellyn A. Morrison
WHERE rough Golgotha's ramparts rise
Without the city gateway
I stand, beneath the Syrian skies,
And lo, there cometh straightway
A throng, who lead a virgin's Son.
Their hate-tipped tongues deride Him,
Cross-burdened, scourged, thorn-crowned, undone,
And there they crucified Him. I shudder at the awful scene,
The pregnant passions swaying,
The darksome deeds that so demean —
Still fouler lust betraying.
I see the soldier, stern and cold;
The boaster who denied Him;
The low-browed ruffian, bad and bold.
And there they crucified Him. I hear them cry, “Away with Him,”
And gnash their teeth upon Him,
While vicious villains, gaunt and grim,
Exude their vileness on Him.
They strip and spike Him to the wood —
While traitors taunt and chide Him —
’Mid oaths and cursings, tears and blood;
And there they crucified Him. I marvel when I hear Him pray,
With wistful gaze above them;
For as I listen, He doth say —
He does so truly love them —
“Forgive them, Father; they forget.”
Those murderers beside Him,
Unheeding still, refuse Him yet —
And there they crucified Him. The day shrank into night at noon,
Appalled at human blindness;
The dead sprang free from death's long swoon,
Thrilled by His loving-kindness;
All heaven shone out, in Him revealed —
Nor hate nor hell could hide Him;
The veil was rent, and love unsealed,
Because they crucified Him.