Friday, the sky was blazing hot.
You bore upon your back a cross.
By order of the government, they know not what they do.
In sackcloth and ashes.
Christened with a coronet, made out of vicious thorns.
They hung you out to dry that day.
My, how they made you cry that day.
Nobody stood in their way.
The townsfolk were scared.
Most of them cared.
The soldiers were evil, but compelled by orders.
The evil ones stabbed you as you were hung.
Nailed to your final cross.
That cross you had to bear.
From your crown of thorns blood tears flowed.
The devils from Rome, thought they'd taken control.
As that sky turned black.
Too late to turn back.
The day the Lord was crucified.
Goodness and love for his being denied!

On Sunday,
Amid a strange air he was taken down.
Discreetly interred in a hole in the ground.
A stone rolled in place, he could never be found.
(c) Livvi