The King's Sacrifice
The moon casts its light
Over the Garden
Like a soft glow
As a dark figure walks along the moonlit path,
The olive tree branches basking in the light,
Wind whispering of forgotten tales
As it blows across the weathered glass.
The dark figure—he pauses,
Kneeling at a rock.
He begins to weep
And silently he prays,
For soon, very soon,
He's going to be betrayed.
The sound of footsteps
Breaks the silence
Like the sound of glass… shattering.
Soldiers and priests—
They stand hand in hand.
As one, his brethren
Betrays him.
He looks at him with no remorse,
Kisses his cheek, and fate takes its course.
The soldiers—they seize.
The high priests—they sneer.
They finally got him.
His end is near.
The ones who were with him
Suddenly awake; they dash to his aid,
But all for nothing—
It's too late.
One grabs a sword and slices off the soldier's ear.
The figure heals the man—
Why, I do not know.
Perhaps he is accepting his fate.
How am I to know?
They drag him into town,
Celebrating as they stroll.
They tear his clothes in victory,
Like the spoils of an unnecessary war.
They mock and spit.
They jeer and laugh—
This king, nothing more than a joker to them.
They arrive at Pilate
And command that he dies.
But Pilate—he looks in confusion
And ponders why.
This man—he is innocent.
He's done nothing wrong.
What fills their hearts with hatred?
Why is their hatred strong?
They continue with their shouts;
It grows stronger by the minute.
He finally gives in
And says he washes his hands of it.
As he walks away, the soldiers—
They grab him and throw him to the ground.
Like a worthless dog, they don't care.
They beat him ferociously,
Blood splattering all over
As the whip tears his flesh.
Skin tears open.
He writhes and squirms
As they continue the punishment.
They mock and they laugh
As they force the thorns on his head.
As his blood burns and sears his eyes,
He can taste his blood.
He knows his fate.
They give him robe and scepter
And announce proudly to those crying,
"Here's your pathetic king,"
As they kick him into the ground.
Then, forcing him up,
They make him carry his own instrument of death—
A wooden cross,
His bloody own fate.
For soon, the hour will be near.
For soon, he will meet his fate.
He arrives at the hill—too tired,
Too weak.
He doesn't put up a fight.
He accepts defeat.
They sprawl him on the cross.
They pound the nails into him.
They pierce and drive through his flesh.
He screams.
He twists.
He writhes and contorts in pain.
But yet they still mock him.
Their hearts—
Hadn't changed.
They hoist him up
As his followers look on.
They weep at the sight
Of this man
They call
Their Lord.
Breathing raspily,
He silently cries,
"I'm thirsty."
And as he gets his final drink,
He bows his head,
Says, "It is finished,"
And there—he dies.
The ground violently shakes
As this innocent man dies.
The curtain in the Temple
Tears open, and a silent hush falls over the land.
They take his body down
And carry him to the tomb.
They think it's all over,
But they don't have any clue.
I wrote this as a raw, unfiltered reflection on the suffering of Christ—what He truly endured for us. It's not polished with pretty words, but honest and heavy with sorrow. This is the weight of our redemption. This is what it cost.
I didn’t write this just to inspire—I wrote it to confront. Feel it. Wrestle with it. Remember Him.
“He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief…” – Isaiah 53:3
The moon casts its light
Over the Garden
Like a soft glow
As a dark figure walks along the moonlit path,
The olive tree branches basking in the light,
Wind whispering of forgotten tales
As it blows across the weathered glass.
The dark figure—he pauses,
Kneeling at a rock.
He begins to weep
And silently he prays,
For soon, very soon,
He's going to be betrayed.
The sound of footsteps
Breaks the silence
Like the sound of glass… shattering.
Soldiers and priests—
They stand hand in hand.
As one, his brethren
Betrays him.
He looks at him with no remorse,
Kisses his cheek, and fate takes its course.
The soldiers—they seize.
The high priests—they sneer.
They finally got him.
His end is near.
The ones who were with him
Suddenly awake; they dash to his aid,
But all for nothing—
It's too late.
One grabs a sword and slices off the soldier's ear.
The figure heals the man—
Why, I do not know.
Perhaps he is accepting his fate.
How am I to know?
They drag him into town,
Celebrating as they stroll.
They tear his clothes in victory,
Like the spoils of an unnecessary war.
They mock and spit.
They jeer and laugh—
This king, nothing more than a joker to them.
They arrive at Pilate
And command that he dies.
But Pilate—he looks in confusion
And ponders why.
This man—he is innocent.
He's done nothing wrong.
What fills their hearts with hatred?
Why is their hatred strong?
They continue with their shouts;
It grows stronger by the minute.
He finally gives in
And says he washes his hands of it.
As he walks away, the soldiers—
They grab him and throw him to the ground.
Like a worthless dog, they don't care.
They beat him ferociously,
Blood splattering all over
As the whip tears his flesh.
Skin tears open.
He writhes and squirms
As they continue the punishment.
They mock and they laugh
As they force the thorns on his head.
As his blood burns and sears his eyes,
He can taste his blood.
He knows his fate.
They give him robe and scepter
And announce proudly to those crying,
"Here's your pathetic king,"
As they kick him into the ground.
Then, forcing him up,
They make him carry his own instrument of death—
A wooden cross,
His bloody own fate.
For soon, the hour will be near.
For soon, he will meet his fate.
He arrives at the hill—too tired,
Too weak.
He doesn't put up a fight.
He accepts defeat.
They sprawl him on the cross.
They pound the nails into him.
They pierce and drive through his flesh.
He screams.
He twists.
He writhes and contorts in pain.
But yet they still mock him.
Their hearts—
Hadn't changed.
They hoist him up
As his followers look on.
They weep at the sight
Of this man
They call
Their Lord.
Breathing raspily,
He silently cries,
"I'm thirsty."
And as he gets his final drink,
He bows his head,
Says, "It is finished,"
And there—he dies.
The ground violently shakes
As this innocent man dies.
The curtain in the Temple
Tears open, and a silent hush falls over the land.
They take his body down
And carry him to the tomb.
They think it's all over,
But they don't have any clue.
I wrote this as a raw, unfiltered reflection on the suffering of Christ—what He truly endured for us. It's not polished with pretty words, but honest and heavy with sorrow. This is the weight of our redemption. This is what it cost.
I didn’t write this just to inspire—I wrote it to confront. Feel it. Wrestle with it. Remember Him.
“He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief…” – Isaiah 53:3