Classic Poem

The Priests, the elders, and the scribes,
From council had adjourned;
And Pilate's proffered sacrifice,
The mob had promptly spurned.

And up Golgotha's rising slope,
A boist'ous, cruel, band,
With taunts, and jeers, and foul rebuke,
Leads forth the Son of Man.

Oh, what a scene for human eyes!
Our Savior, bowed in grief;
And tortured by the very ones,
To whom He brings relief.

Close at His side, a swarthy man,
Beneath His cross doth bow;
Oh Simon! Ne'er did mortal bend,
To nobler task than thou.

And, on the brow of Calvary,
With scoffing, and with scorn,
They nailed our Saviour to the cross,
With diadem of thorn.

'Tis done, and Joseph now has laid
His body in the tomb;
And none except the guards keep watch,
Amid the somber gloom.

But what can bar our holy Lord,
Or cross his wondrous plan?
The stronghold 'bout His lonely tomb,
Shows unbelief of man.

When, to the tomb, the women came,
In grief, at break of day,
An angel, 'mid an earthquake, vast,
Had rolled the stone away.

No power within this great domain,
Can stay our mighty King;
Oh grave, where is thy victory,
Oh death, where is thy sting!

Despite the grave, despite the bar,
In triumph He hath flown,
And sitteth on the Right of God,
Joint-ruler of His own.