"You, Come here!"
spoke the Roman, looking mean,
clearly, he meant me,
Simon of Cyrene.

I do not like to argue
with men who play at war.
He motioned I should take the cross
that the Rebel, Jesus, bore.

My strong shoulder lifted up
the heavy, rough Hewn cross.
No wonder he had fallen,
look at all the blood he's lost.

We walk together for a while
up the steep incline
I do not speak, but I wonder,
what is on the Rebel's mind.

they stretch him out upon the cross
and drive nails in his wrists
They raise him up and jam him down
They have practice doing this.

He's speaking to two women
and a man, perhaps a friend
maybe only they can hear him,
his voice weaker than the wind.

The people of Jerusalem
Taunt the Rebel as he dies
Three hours pass, he speaks his last
vain prayer up to the sky

the soldiers have to break the legs
of those two who hung with thee
and they jab a pilus in the side
of the man from Galilee.

The day by then was cold and raw
where the sun had shined before.
I made my way back down the hill,
with disgust for Roman law