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April 15-18, 2022


it wasnt pretty, those three crosses on that stony hill

no matter how we try decorating one with purple cloths

it remains an instrument of torture, punishment, death


there would be pain, blood, screams and dreadful silence

upon that rock, as souls escaped their transient homes

silence, poured like the blood staining battered wood


silence that crept cold ground, confronted colder eyes

threw justice, with devotion, into the careless winds

joined the mocking laughter of brutal condemnation


no, the cross was not pretty, it could not have been

the evil it confronted, defeated, was more ugly by far

but the victory it bought surpasses all else in its glory


the ruler it cast down is the most horrid being ever

the One it held the glorious King over all creation


It Wasn't Pretty

A poem by Peter Rhebergen
Copyright 2022
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