Not the thorn,
twisted cruelly into brow,
nor the lash,
ripping skin from bone,
nor the jeering mouths,
spitting scorn at Love Incarnate.

Not the timber’s weight,
splitting the shoulders of Innocence,
nor the hammer’s pounding,
sealing wrists to splintered wood,
nor the blood, thickening the earth,
unrecognized by the ones it would ransom.

The good is deeper and more powerful,
buried beneath agony,
seeded in sorrow.

It is the Son’s arms,
stretched wider than the sky,
bearing every accusation
without defense.

It is the whispered forgiveness
over a world still cursing.

It is the torn curtain,
split from heaven to earth,
declaring:
the way is open.

It is the death of death,
the triumph buried in bruises,
the crushing of the serpent’s head
beneath the pierced heel.

The good is this:
Love would rather die
than let us go.

And so He did.
Thanks be to God.