STATION 7

JESUS FALLS A SECOND TIME


Festive spirits from last night’s feast, prayers sung some still asleep.
One in yarmulke raced streets rushing forth with carefree leap.
Such pageantry he had never seen in such a great city.
Day before he laughed at jokes, bowed at scribes, loved the gaiety.

His pilgrimage began long before these unusual sights.
Through many towns to Jerusalem his family spent much nights.
Unknown to parents he slipped away to watch the daytime crowd.
The tents, the wares, the booths of those who stirred, their voices loud.

Down roads he skipped past working men until he spied a guard.
A Roman soldier with whip on his belt stared at him so hard.
The boy backed up, turned in fear, and ran back to the market square
Where merchants worked fast for last few sales for coins, their golden share.

The boy climbed up a stone wall so he could get a better look.
Ahead on a distant street the boy saw a crowd formed, his legs shook.
For everywhere guards lifted swords, they pushed and poked at will.
The boy quickly jumped from wall to wall as he climbed up the hill.

Squinting past the now quiet mass the boy saw two men on path.
Sweat on their bodies they lifted beams under uniformed wrath.
The soldier with his whip now in his hand cried out, “That makes two!”
The smaller man fell from cruelty, knowing more they would do.

The triumphant chant of victory now down the winding street
The mob following the fallen man is lost with His defeat.
The boy unknown to city life was amazed at this painful way,
The man down, broken in pain, the boy had to watch, had to stay.

Covered in bruises and blows, the smaller man’s clothes had such stain.
A red colored hue, “Oh no,” said the boy, “that’s blood from his pain.”
The boy looked at the guards that kicked and spat on the man on the ground.
This man accused, beaten, abused, began to stand without sound.

The boy sat down hard as he watched the hurt man lift his arms straight.
A Roman soldier held out his hands, all watched the smaller man’s fate.
But the boy knew it was more than that as the man slowly stood.
“Dear God!”  He exclaimed as he prayed. “Stop this, I know that you could.”

Standing no more the boy half turned away with his whole heart’s ache.
But he glanced at the man who stared at him, this was no mistake.
Together they stood with their tears mixed with the thick of the dust.
United somehow, but unknown to boy, just a sense they must.

Up ahead on the hillside top there were two crosses that stood,
The man would be three; the boy ached as he really understood.
But why now?  Had not all his punishment already been done?
Who was leader of this who could make it all come undone?

Now at once the man’s eyes claimed the fear the boy held on to.
With Yarmulke on head, the boy praised, bowed to Messiah’s view.
The boy was filled with glorious peace from deep inside his core
The man continued on as he stumbled down the path once more.

The boy ran past Market Square to where his mother was at rest.
He rushed to her, wrapped his arms around and cried onto her chest.
The whole story, His glory, he told of the man who would die.
With her son’s help she knelt down and they prayed to God on high.