Satan:
Were you watching as they dragged my battered Jesus from his cell?
Did you gloat on how they’d tortured him, and beaten him so well?
Were there gleeful, loathsome parties in some lower fetid hell,
As a kind of celebration on the day Messiah fell?
Did you mingle with the crowd
Shouting insults vile out loud?
Spitting with them all
Holding them in thrall
Wallowing in pride
Demons beaming wide
Did you laugh the hours away
On Friday, Bloody Friday?
Did it give you hellish pleasure as they made him bear his cross
Along the via dolorosa, through the rubbish and the dross?
Did it make you feel triumphant, that at last you were the boss;
That Messiah had been broken, and his true men at a loss?
Did you catch his eye that day
A glance that was to say
You’ve lost what you had
You’ve got it coming bad
Im going to watch you die
Watch you shriek up to the sky.
Did he watch you mock that day,
On Friday, Bloody Friday?
As the rude iron nails were planted in his gentle, caring hands
And his ankles pierced with heavy blows, a torture all of mans’,
Did you smile with vile delight? As all his erstwhile loving fans
Deserted him, the zenith of your plans
Must have seemed to you
To all come true.
For Messiah hung
Feebly strung
On wooden tree
Just for your glee.
Did you watch him, wordless, pray
On Friday, Bloody Friday?
And as they raised his cross up high, did you laugh deep in your soul?
As they dropped the cursed cross into its hellish prepared hole,
And he gasped in pain and terror as the nerves jangled their toll,
Did your inner being exultate as at last you got your goal?
You felt the triumph then
Over God and over men
Your blasted nether hells
Rang their dissonant bells
To tell the demons how
Satan’s rule was started now.
Every devil had his day
On Friday, Bloody Friday.
At the third hour, your power
Spat out, and in hell’s deep bower
They rejoiced at victory won.
Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?
I thirst.
Blessed are they that thirst
It
Is
Finished.
Friday, Bloody Friday.
Temple curtain rent in twain
Thieves crying out in pain
Alone, unloved,
Hung
Messiah.
But were you doubtful of the battle you had hard won, even then?
A huge round stone, you got your men
To seal Messiah’s body in
The cold grey tomb of death.
And, sure now that all was done
You head from tomb of the Son
Down down returning to your throne
Of blasted stone and mire.
Three days of celebration gone, did you at last arise
And look out from your portals, as the son began to rise?
And Mary heads toward the grave, I imagine your surprise
As loud she wails “He is not there” , the stone lies flat, unprised.
Oh would it be that I could have seen
The pain upon your face
As Messiah turned mortal death around
And ushered in his grace.
In caverns deep the wailing starts, a hellish song so full of dread
And dying hopes that you did aspire
All lie crushed beneath the heel
Of him that you thought dead
He is Alive! Your demons shriek; He is arisen! Flee!
For hell’s own boundaries are shook
And prisoners set free.
Oh, do you remember, long ago, the nadir of your days?
Do you remember all your power leeched by he who prays
Above and to the Father? He who all fear allays?
Then recall, with deep’ning dread
The words you shrieked out to the dead;
The words that will not go away:
SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY.
© Roger Wright 2004
All rights reserved.
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