Good Friday Poem

Read a Good Friday Poem to remind you of the dark day that occurred on Good Friday. While we now know that three days later that Jesus rose from the dead, Good Friday is a day of reflection and a day that we now give thanks for what Jesus did for us all.

Short Poems   /   Special Occasion   /   Good Friday Poem

  1. The Day Was So Dark
    Poet: Catherine Pulsifer, ©2020

    The day was so dark and gloom
    It seemed The Way was totally doomed.
    So many believed in Him
    Now the light had turned so dim.

    A sad day for those who believed
    Their eyes could not bear to see
    Gone were their hopes, their dreams
    Now evaporated like steam.

    They could not foresee
    Any hope or how it could be
    They didn't understand the plan
    That God had for man.

    Good Friday was a solemn day
    But we now know God had His way
    On this day we should reflect
    And thank God who is perfect.

  2. Good Friday
    Poet: Margaret Elizabeth Munson Sangster

    Be hushed, my heart, remembering
    What dole was given for thee,
    How pressed on Him thy burden, when,
    For all the sinful sons of men,
    Christ went to Calvary.

    The mournful journey that He made.
    Each step was taken for thee.
    Be hushed, my heart, let clamor cease
    Prepare a chamber white with peace,
    His resting-place to be.

    In solemn shadow of the cross,
    O soul, abide till He
    Who tasted death ere thou shouldst know
    Its bitterness of utmost woe
    With strength shall guerdon thee.

    Its Via Dolorosa still
    Each life of earth must see,
    And in some hour, or soon or late,
    Must bend beneath the crushing weight
    Of earth’s Gethsemane.

    But heart, in love and prayer look up
    Beyond the awesome tree;
    The heaven of heavens is reft to-day;
    All angels march the starry way
    That leads from Calvary.

    For conquering, the Lord of life
    (His mighty legions free)
    Goes forward while the ages roll;
    The price of every ransomed soul
    Full paid on Calvary.

  3. He Lives Again
    Poet: Unknown

    The purple mist lay heavy on the hills,
    The gray of early dawn o'erspread the sky,
    Within the quiet garden Jesus slept.
    While o'er the tomb rang heaven's lullaby.
    A sliver light now tints the clouds above,
    Glad promise of the morn that is to be;
    The sunlight glows, white lilies lift their heads.
    Sweet music rings from bush and waving tree.

    Upon the dew-wet path an angel stands,
    With shining face uplifted to the blue.
    "Come forth!" he cries. "O Mighty One, come forth!
    And show the world Thy Word is ever' true."
    The heavy stone is slowly rolled away,
    The strain of praise rings out exulant, strong;
    Swift from the grave steps Christ, the risen King,
    While vale and hill repeat the triumph song.

    The waking flowers shed their perfume rare
    Upon the path His nail-pierced feet must tread,
    While golden sunbeams, sifting through the trees,
    Wave aureoles to crown His royal head.
    He lives again, the Lord of light and love,
    Enthroned above forevermore to dwell.
    Hail, joyous day! that from the bonds of death
    Gives to each heart the dear Immanuel.

  4. Christ's Passion
    Poet: Abram Cowley

    I’ll sing the searchless depths of the compassion divine,
    The depths unfathomed yet
    By reason’s plummet and the line of wit, -
    Too light the plummet and too short the line, -
    How the Eternal Father did bestow
    His own Eternal Son as ransom for His foe;
    I’ll sing aloud that all the world may hear
    The triumph of the buried Conqueror,
    How hell was by its prisoner captive led,
    And the great slayer, Death, slain by the Dead.

    Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice,
    Mixed with the murderer’s confused noise,
    Sound from the top of Calvary;
    My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see
    Who’t is hangs there, the midmost of the three;
    Oh, how unlike the others He!
    Look, how He bends His gentle head with blessings from the tree!
    His gracious hands, ne’er stretched but to do good,
    Are nailed to the infamous wood;
    And sinful man does fondly bind
    The arms which He extends to embrace all human kind.

    Open, ah! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,
    And let them call
    Their stock of moisture forth where’er it lies;
    For this will ask it all;
    ’Twould all, alas ! too little be,
    Though thy salt tears come from a sea;
    Canst thou deny Him this, when He
    Has opened all His vital springs for thee?
    Take heed, for by His side’s mysterious flood,
    May well be understood
    That He will still require some waters to His blood.

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