The Chill of Rejection

I see Him, as he bears His cross;

The wood is rough, His shoulders' sore.

I see the faltering of his steps,

As pressure multiplies the more.

I hear the cracking of the whip,

And see the red whelps turning blue.

I see the thorns that pricked His scalp,

As the blood came oozing through.

The soldier stoops to drive the spikes,

First in His feet, and then a hand.

The cruelty displayed there that day,

Was more than finite man can stand.

But yet the greatest pain He bore,

Came from love’s greatest reflection,

To love His own enough to die,

Then to feel their cold rejection.

I shudder at such callousness;

They turned their back and walked away,

But if you’ve turned your back on Him,

You’re just as guilty now, as they.