Gazing up at His cross,
A hammer in my hand.
Noting without feeling,
His blood upon the sand.
His body squirms and writhes,
I stand by to behold.
He scarce restrains a moan,
My heart remains so cold.
His breathing grows labored,
The end approaches fast.
His enemies delight,
Here at the very last.
I stand among that group,
No pity, without shame.
We watch His eyes grow dim,
Refusing any blame.
At last comes final breath,
It leaves Him as a sigh.
Raucous laughter ensues,
Twas good to watch Him die.
I did not see that day,
The above can't be true.
Had I been present that day,
There's something I would do!
Who doesn't feel the same,
Who reads this poem now?
We'd boldly face that mob,
Righteously crying "Foul!"
Fearless and defiant,
We'd battle Satan's horde.
They'd have to take our lives,
Before they'd reach our Lord!
Yet now I'm brought up short,
No longer feeling grand.
My eyes alight upon,
The hammer in my hand.
Why can't I shake it loose,
And drop it the ground?
Why does it seem to be,
Stuck to my hand and bound?
Sometimes I still choose sin,
Rather than my dear Lord.
At times selfishness wins,
Seems to my heart it's moored.
I must cling to His grace,
There's so much that I owe!
If He chose to withhold,
It's off to Hell I'd go.
I long to be perfect,
To never sin at all.
I long to be like Him,
To live and never fall.
Alas, I have weakness,
And with it I must live.
So now I must confess,
I need Him to forgive.
So I'll go through this life,
In loving faith I'll stand.
But I can ne'er forget,
The hammer in my hand.
