“Behold the Lamb of God!” John cried, then stepped aside from view.
I left it all and followed him, believing it was true.
“Where are you staying?” we asked, unsure of where he led.
“Come and see,” was his reply, “just where I lay my head.”
We traveled dusty roads and fields, wherever he would go,
His gracious words and healing touch restored the weak and low.
Acquainted with our weakness, he lay sleeping in the stern.
The wind and waves would shake our souls and test what we had learned.
“Peace! Be still!” He calmed the storm and filled our hearts with fear.
“Who is this man the winds obey, and all creation hears?”
Up to the mountaintop we climbed, my brother, friend, and I.
Then blazing glory covered him, we feared that we might die.
Dazzling white, his garments shone; his face alight with flame.
The Father’s voice from heaven spoke; we trembled at his name.
“This is my Son—now hear him well.” We kept what we had seen,
Until he rose, and we with him would share in things unseen.
The Kingdom he was ushering in, the now and the not yet.
The sick were healed, the dead were raised, and darkness felt his threat.
His enemies were closing in. A “friend” left to betray.
But I stayed close and leaned on him, “How could he go away?”
We followed to Gethsemane. We could not watch and pray.
Our sleepy heads were heavy, while our Savior did obey.
Great drops of blood and sweat fell down from his anguished brow.
The weight of sin upon his head, the Father did allow.
Their torches snaked along the path with orders to arrest.
A kiss. A sword. An ear made whole, the Prince of Peace addressed.
One word befell his enemies. They tumbled to the ground.
I followed from a distance. I did not make a sound.
They took him to the courtyard, and we waited by the door.
A servant girl said, “I know you! You’ve been with him before!”
My friend denied. The rooster crowed, and I happened to see.
Jesus turned and met his gaze. My friend fell to his knees.
They struck my Lord upon his face. They spat into his eye.
“Are you the King of the Jews?” they mocked—he did not deny.
A crown of thorns they twisted and shoved upon his head.
“Give us Barabbas!” came the cry, “Release him to us instead!”
They nailed him to the rugged cross. He hung there in the sun.
He gave his mother to my care before his work was done.
“It is finished!” was his cry, his head, he gently bowed.
“Surely, this was the Son of God!” the soldier said aloud.
I did not know what I should do. Where could I go from here?
He was the way, the truth, the life—the future was unclear.
We hid away in grief and fear. We wondered what was next.
Nightmares filled my head and heart; I never could find rest.
Early the next morning, Mary came to us and said,
“The stone’s been rolled away! Did they take away the dead?”
I, the one whom Jesus loved, ran ahead in haste.
We looked inside and saw the cloth set neatly in its place.
We gathered in the Upper Room, and there he did appear.
No greater joy has e’er been known, or news so good to hear!
He is risen from the dead, our sins he has atoned.
Death’s lost its sting, and we are free–for he now sits enthroned.
What shall we say about his head? That wore the crown of thorns.
His rule and reign will never end, his name the saints adorn.
A thousand crowns upon his head, reviled, he’ll be no more.
The church is his—he is the head, forever he’s adored.
He is risen! He’s risen indeed!