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   /   Good Friday Poem - related: Christian Quotes



  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. The price of every ransomed soul Full paid on Calvary.


  4. 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.



  5. 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.



  6. Good Friday
    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?



  7. There was no glory on the hills that day


  8. No Glory
    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 jeering,
    And an anguished voice
    Crying forgiveness.

    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 -
    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.



  9. 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.



  10. Good Friday
    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.



  11. 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.



  12. Good Friday
    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.



  13. Christ Crucified
    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.



  14. 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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