How I want to be
one of the women there at the cross
but I fear I am one of the disciples
asleep in the garden.
I am Judas
selling the Savior for silver.
I am Peter
denying I ever knew Him.
Far worse, I am there
at the cross, but not with weeping.
I am the soldier with the hammer
pounding in the nails,
blood staining my hands and my clothes.
I am the crowd
I am there,
casting lots for His clothes while His blood flows.
I am all the villains in the story.
I am all those sinners.
I am the reason He died.
I am the one He loved with His life.
And so are you.