Skip to main content

My Jesus, The Crucified - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


MY JESUS, THE CRUCIFIED

They spit upon His meekness,
and struck Him in the face.
They swung their whips with hatred
and stripped Him in disgrace.
Deep worked the Roman anger
that tortured Him, a Jew.
Yet this His groaning contemplation:
“They know not what they do.”

Just few days away
When He rode an ass to town,
His people cheered “Hosanna,”
now they want Him crucified.
How deadly their hatred
and demonic jealousy.
They freed the bandit Barabbas;
to sentence Him, the Christ.
He hung outside their city,
where all Rabbi mocked Him too;
Yet with this hurt, He whispered:
“I'll give my life for you.”

No angels came to help Him
when He cried "why forget me, El?"
He called on God the Father
but heaven too, was in pain.
The Devil tried to reach Him
Through every lie in hell.
He mocked and made the victory sign,
Lucifer the soon to lose.
Unthinkable the anguish
God Father crushed the Son.
In pain He whispered a firm conviction:
“Thy will, not mine, be done.”

No selfishness, no hatred,
No spitefulness was there,
like the bitter twin criminals
that stood like fallen cherubs
by his right and left.
There stood His darling mother
drenched in her virgin tears.
One sinful thought; one failure,
And Love would not succeed.
But for your sake and mine, oh mankind
He bore the pain, the Lamb.

Had Jesus faltered even once,
In flames of hell would you and I abide.
I'm home alone, Calvary replying on my mind,
Tears drops as I watch my Jesus die.
I wondered why the soldiers laugh
And why they mock, Jewish passerbys. 
Yet I'm assured, though darkness rules tonight
that hades and Lucifer's just been crushed.
In hours time, come dear Sunday
this battered man of Calvary,
shall in a cloud of lights
from the grave arise.
and this sad and gloomy day 
shall be my Good Friday.



#GoodFriday
#Pengician
#SSA

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

shy, a poem

bashful, timid, quiet.  shy If anyone you know has used these terms to describe you, you're probably a bit shy. Everyone feels that way once in a while. Shyness and social anxiety are common, no matter how old you are. There is one myth about social anxiety and social anxiety disorder that I would like to dispel. The myth says that social anxiety is just exaggerated shyness. This myth encourages the idea that anxious people are merely weak-willed pushovers. It is partially because of this myth, I think, that well-intentioned people offer the relevant but insensitive and patronizing advice like, “Don’t worry about it!” , “Just do it” and “Face your fears.”  Thinking on all these, I wrote this poem: shy when a shy person speaks, it's like music from guitar strings. when a shy person smiles, it’s like the sun coming out when a shy person steps out it's like the uncommon visit of gods when a shy person reclines it feels like moon eloped from night when a shy person is 'i

Dustbin And Drafts - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 142: DUSTBIN AND DRAFTS He was the night sky, She was a star, Always together, Never one. He wrote what he felt for her of how her twinkles light up his dark. But they never get to her. One more note was added in his drafts. Fragrant pens and beautiful poems Pink papers and artistic handwriting. She wrote about the beauty in his black of how they make her twinkles shine. but they never got to him. Only the dustbin knows how much she loves him - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends.  Thank you!

For Leah Shabiru - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 136: FOR LEAH SHABIRU I can't find the words right To describe Leah's plight. I hope this little piece of mine Awakens our voiceless unconcern. Does she feel giddy? Does she still cry? Does she look out the window and heave a sigh? How long shall this gravity Hold her down to these rascals? I know she kicks but in vain I know she whispers prayers to her God Or maybe she now doubts his existence. Does she wish her breathe be gone? But she's just a teenager Who dreamt of leaving her deadbeat town One day she went to chase dreams The next she was never found Sunrise and sunset have come and gone and Leah is still in the devil's lair. You and I, we eat, we sleep She's not our own, we care not a bit Until same fate cross our path Trample our wives And rip our hearts Only then shall we realize in Leah died our very soul. - Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends