There is no glory in this cross,
nor in a crown of thorn,
just hard derision, fearful hate
and rising human scorn.
There is no joy to see a son,
his tendons taut and strained,
he hangs, discarded garbage now,
his life blood dried, or drained.
How dare we alleluia praise,
or thank God for a gift
This heinous, human victory sees
We cannot cope with such a love,
it almost seems insane,
a counterpoint to what we seek.
We question it again.
And so we stand, if we will dare,
in shadow in this place,
and contemplate another time
Love’s dying, mortal grace.
Andrew Pratt 3/4/2019
Tune: ST FULBERT
For ‘Good Friday’.
Words © 2019 Stainer & Bell Ltd, London, England, http://www.stainer.co.uk.
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