Stripped, beaten, bleeding
My King, my Lord, hangs above my head.
I dare not look up.
I kneel
Hunched in agony
Rocking in grief.
What have they done to You, my King?
What ... what have I done to You
That You should suffer so
For me?
Your blood drips onto the ground before me.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I shrink from it
Horrified that You should shed Your blood 
For me.
But in my heart I hear a whisper,
Weak, barely a breath.
"My child, don't shrink away,
For this is my gift to you."
I don't understand.
How can blood be a gift?
I stagger as I rise,
Overcome with grief that my humanity,
My sin, has brought You to this.
What hope then is there?
"There is hope, always hope in Me."
The breath replies.
I gaze at the blood drops
Ceased now. 
No more to fall.
The horror is overwhelming.
It is finished.
Evil has won.
I gaze down at the drops on the ground.
And fall to my knees to look more closely
For there,each grain of blood-soaked soil 
seems to move.
To lift.
And each brings forth a shoot
Growing before my eyes
Growing, strengthening,
Blossoming.
Until there is a carpet of flowers
At the foot of the Cross.
Hope. Life.
Is this what the Cross is all about?
My King is dead, 
Yet there is life in the blood.
Dare I hope?
One, two, three days?
Only time will tell.
My King.
His words declare themselves in my mind
Strong and sure.
No whisper now.
"I am the Light, the Way, the Truth, the Bread, the Life."
The Life.
Jesus is the Life!
King of kings!
And I worship, in awe, as I turn away,
Reluctant to leave
But knowing He is calling me to tell others.
Jesus is the Life!
Hallelujah!
Even as I remember
What they did to You, my King,
At the close of this day, 
As I wait for Sunday to dawn,
I can sing
Hallelujah!