Where were we when they killed Him? Where did we
Find ourselves in that sixth hour, when there fell
That sepulchral darkness, and none could see
Ought but tree and nails? We know well

Where Caiaphas stood. He rose to gloat and
Jeered at Him who dared to suggest He would
Raise the Temple of God by His own hand;
“Let Him come down, save Himself, if He could!”

Judas was in a different tree - he prayed
Not, believed not, hoped not; but hoarsely sang
A curse against himself who had betrayed
His Teacher, and resigned himself to hang.

Peter, Rock, the chief, nowhere to be found;
For he in fear ran to a lonely place
And stretched himself out upon the cold ground
While burning tears of shame streamed down his face.

Poor Dismas, hanging, recognized his sin.
The bleeding thief sought pardon from his Lord;
He begged, seeing the peril he was in,
He touched the King’s heart before the cruel sword.

John, the Magdalen, and the Mother too,
Kept vigil on ****** sand ‘neath the Cross;
That Mother’s heart which alone truly knew
The height and depth of the world’s present loss.

But where was I? What was my part, you ask?
I’ll confess it, though I cry and stammer
With cowardice: when I finished my task,
I stood, mouth agape, and dropped my hammer.