The Witness

I nudged my way through the crowd,
I heard men and women shout aloud.
"Jesus!"

I stretched my neck as I stood on my tiptoes.

Another shout arose.
"Which one will you choose?
Barabbas, or Jesus, king of the Jews?"
The roar of Barabbas's name filled the air,
As the badly beaten Jesus stood there.

The Roman soldiers took Him away,
The man called Jesus had nothing to say.
At the site where He was crucified,
His followers hung their heads and cried.

The long, steel nail was placed on His wrist,
As the soldier drove it in, His hand clinched into a fist.
A tall man blocked my view,
As the crowd pushed their way through.
The soldiers hoist the large cross, and placed it into a hole in the ground, There was a thump sound.
His blood ran into His eyes;
He looked up at the sky.
His utterance was with authority,
Then He looked down at His mother, Mary.
"It is finished," He said.
The next minute, He was dead.
A travailing of cries echoed in the air,
The soldiers gambled for His robe without a care.

I pushed my way through.
A man stopped me and asked, "Are you a Jew?"
I pulled away, and said,
"Please, please, I have to see, this man who died on Calvary!"
I looked upon Him, so frail and drawn,
I whispered, "Is He really gone?"
I heard a small voice say within me, "I gave my life for you, so that you might be free."