By Alyson Schroll
I’m pushed forward as I watch the conviction.
Pilate has shuffled in and out of those closed doors.
I saw, once, his shoulders begin to shake,
His hands start to sweat, and lip twitch with each phrase.
Justice has never transpired quite like this before.
Maybe it’s Pilate’s flimsy stance that makes me wonder, but,
I just can’t accept that worry is the end.
I'm tossed around as I follow the masses.
The crowds’ sandals trample the trail of blood,
Of a Man who only enraged by doing good.
Although they followed him through cities and places,
These people are now red with violence and hate.
Maybe it’s His lack of hate that makes me wonder, but
I just can’t accept that anger is the end.
I’m left alone as I notice the onlookers.
The men and woman standing at a distance,
Half-watching, hiding, but listening to His mumbled words.
Perhaps the power to utilize His existence,
Was now, just a murdered hope, a dream burned.
Maybe it’s the space they keep from Him that makes me wonder, but
I just can’t accept that sadness is the end.
I can’t define what I feel right now,
But I just can’t accept that this Man’s death is the end.
My pastor asked me to write a poem to be presented at the 2015 Good Friday service at my church. This was one of the very rare times that I could write something specifically asked of me. My goal for this poem was to show that we always look at the event of Christ's death subjectively. We cannot objectively view the tragedy because we know he wins the battle against death. But, what about all those people who didn't know Christ's death wasn't the end? This poem explains some of the possible feelings those members of the crowd felt.