Good Friday

Behold!

Behold the wood—
And cloth of purple dyed is slipped aside—
Behold the cross on which he died.
Behold the wood.

And so I cry—
I did not ask that he should die for me—
And yet I weep
And yet this vigil keep.
Behold the wood.

I am not good.
I do not do the good I would
And what I should not, do,
Yet even with my woulds and shoulds and coulds
He says I’m good enough—
Behold the wood—
For him to pay my price.

So on that tree—
Behold the wood—
He died for me—
Behold the wood—
That I might be—
Behold the wood—
So much much more than me.
Behold the wood.

Behold—I will behold,
And I will try.
Behold, he dies.

And he will rise.