The Good Friday
On this day of consolidated suffering
Vengeance drained from the Divine cup;
Wrath fell like rain whilst he looked up;
A thief’s wages not fitting for a King.
But in the mourning, a hue of hope,
‘Midst arid tears and silent sheep:
Doth calm their souls as if to keep,
Them for a day, content to cope.
‘Til Destiny’s dawn shines its light.
When darkness flees into retreat;
The defeated to know defeat.
Death hath died, and day hath lost its night.