These Are My JOTtings, Part #2

Good Friday at the Hands of Men

That Friday was Good, though it looked bad
when Jesus bore our sin.
His Face was bloodied. The crowd was mad.
He did not seem to win.

How could it be good when all we knew
at sunset was a death?
How could He be nailed, and then turn blue,
The One, Who gave us breath?

The jury had lied. The verdict false.
The Innocent was blamed.
The crowd, it condemned. The guilty waltzed
with justice ne'er the same.

Yet, He, Who knows the Story's End
had turned His Back this once.
The crying Savior would not mend
before His final pulse.

The thirty-six hours of the silent Savior
were ripping Creation's seams.
There was no Plan B, that aught could tender.
His dearest dashed their dreams.

Now mottled, and oiled, and Body wrapped,
The Savior laid in state,
but He Himself was never trapped.
He kept each scheduled date.

The sun, it peeked above the horizon
upon that dark third morn.
Did he dare to shine the light of reason,
until the grave be torn?

Nevermore to see the Savior living.
Nevermore to hear His voice.
Nevermore to Him embrace be giving.
Nevermore to live in Hope's great choice.

Good Friday was not good to them.
Good Friday was quite bad.
How could they ever live as men
without their Lord so glad?

by Jay O’Toole
on April 2nd, 2021