Good Friday Poem
Read a Good Friday Poem to remind you of the dark day that occurred the day Jesus was crucified. 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 /
- related: Christian Quotes
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.
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.
He Lives Again
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.
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.
Poet: A. J. M. Smith
This day upon the bitter tree
Died One who had He willed
Could have dried up the wide sea
And the wind stilled.
It was about the ninth hour
He surrendered the ghost,
And His face was a fading flower
Dropping and lost.
Who then was not afraid?
Targeted, heart and eye,
Struck, as with darts, by godhead
In human agony.
For Him, who with a cry
Could shatter if He willed
The sea and earth and sky
And them rebuild,
Who chose amid the tumult
Of the lowering sky
A chivalry more difficult -
As Man to die,
What answering meed of love
Can finite flesh return
That is not all unworthy of
The Friend I mourn?
Poet: Martha Provine Leach Turner
There was no glory on the hills that day;
Only dark shame,
And three stark crosses rearing at the sky.
Only a whining wind,
And an anguished voice
Then darkness fell.
We sit today in cushioned pews
And for three hours we watch with Him,
Singing and praying,
Hearing quiet words.
There is a gentle rustle as we move in and out,
Too busy to stay long,
Or else too tired
To sit so long a time
In cushioned pews.
We see a golden cross
And pray to God
That some day,
In His own good time,
The world may do His will.
But we ourselves
Have little time to help -
Except to say a prayer
On cushioned pews.
The golden cross is all aglow
In candle flame.
It burns like flame.
Like flame it burns into my heart -
The golden cross has turned to fire
The candle glow -
Has set the cross on fire -
The burning cross up on the altar
Cries out to me.
The flaming cross is burned into my heart!
The others have not seen.
There is the golden cross
And candle glow.
There was no glory on the hills that day;
But one stark cross
Against a vacant sky.
Mary At The Cross
Poet: Clyde McGee
And Mary stood beside the cross! Her soul
Pierced with the selfsame wound that rent His side
Who hung thereon. She watched Him as He died
Her son! Saw Him paying the cruel toll
Exacted by the law, and unbelief,
Since He their evil will had dared defy.
There stood the mother helpless in her grief,
Beside the cross, and saw her firstborn die!
How many mothers in how many lands
Have bowed with Mary in her agony,
In silence borne the wrath of war's commands,
When every hill is made a Calvary!
O pity, Lord, these mothers of the slain,
And grant their dead shall not have died in vain.
Poet: Christina Rossetti
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky.
A horror of great darkness at broad noon -
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
Near The Cross
Poet: Louis F. Benson
Near the Cross her vigil keeping,
Stood the mother, worn with weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord:
Through her soul, in anguish groaning,
Bowed in sorrow, sighing, moaning,
Passed the sharp and piercing sword.
O the weight of her affliction!
Hers, who won God's benediction,
Hers, who bore God's Holy One:
O that speechless, ceaseless yearning!
O those dim eyes never turning
From her wondrous, suffering Son!
Who upon that mother gazing,
In her trouble so amazing,
Born of woman, would not weep?
Who of Christ's dear mother thinking,
While her Son that cup is drinking,
Would not share her sorrow deep?
For His people's sin chastised
She beheld her Son despised,
Bound and bleeding 'neath the rod;
Saw the Lord's Anointed taken,
Dying desolate, forsaken,
Heard Him yield His soul to God.
Near Thy Cross, O Christ, abiding,
Grief and love my heart dividing,
I with her would take my place:
By Thy guardian Cross uphold me,
In Thy dying, Christ, enfold me
With the deathless arms of grace.
Poet: Ernest Cadman Colwelt
You see this scar?
'Twas a bayonet in Flanders.
You see this bruise?
A slave's chain pinched me there.
My shoulders stoop?
Under the heavy load of labor.
You would see the marks of the Roman scourge,
And the pits where the nails were driven ?
They are all hidden under fresh wounds.
Poet: Alfred Noyes
Clear on the ghostly sky the sharp, black cross,
Bearing the lean, white, shuddering limbs, arose;
And the dark night grew darker than the depth
Of ocean with unutterable fear.
Then from a land beyond the stars it seemed
There crept a thin, sad voice that cut the heart
To hear it, for so cruelly tried the Christ
That, of the women waiting there, two fell
Fainting; but the third woman silently
With white, clenched hand clung upright to the cross;
And from her mouth a. thin, bright thread of blood
Ran trickling down ; then darker grew the night.
And dark beyond all hope of any dawn,
Death sank upon the Christ who cried, "My God,
My Father, why hast Thou forsaken Me?"
When over Calvary the darkness waned,
Clear on the ghostly sky the sharp, black cross
Bearing the naked, lean, white limbs arose;
And, of the two women waiting there, two slept;
But one clung closely to the bitter tree.
Her mouth was bloody from her broken heart.
And death e'en now was laying his cold hand
Upon her brow; the twain who slept were good
And holy women; this was Magdalen.
The Tempest Over and Gone
Poet: Christina G. Rossetti
The tempest over and gone, the calm begun,
Lo, "it is finished," and the Strong Man sleeps:
All stars keep vigil watching for the sun,
The moon her vigil keeps.
A garden full of silence and of dew
Beside a virgin cave and entrance stone:
Surely a garden full of angels too.
Wondering, on watch, alone.
They who cry, "Holy, Holy, Holy," still,
Veiling their faces round God's throne above,
May well keep vigil on this heavenly hill
And cry their cry of love.
Adoring God in His new mystery
Of Love more deep than hell, more strong than death;
Until the day break and the shadows flee,
The Shaking and the Breath.
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