Oh! Woe the day—
The day history stained its page red,
With the blood of an innocent Lamb,
Who bore the weight of His children’s sins.

Judas—he betrayed his Lord,
Who shared with him His body and blood,
For a bag of silver,
And that night unfurled disaster.

“Are you the Son of God?”
The Sanhedrin cried.
And Jesus answered,
“You say that I am...”

Blasphemy! Blasphemy!
“To Pilate, take this man!”
Stood before the Roman- a simple man
With doom awaiting at hand.

Pilate passed the case to Herod,
But the Virgin’s Son spoke not a word,
And Herod found no guilt to see,
So Pilate had him stripped and whipped.

Yet still they cried,
“Crucify him! Crucify him!”
For his blood alone did not satisfy,
Each drop was another soul sanctified.

They crowned Him with a crown of thorns,
And as the midday sun grew dim,
The crowd roared on, their hearts like stone,
Mocking the one to whom their lives were on loan.

He wept, as soldiers tore His robe,
And laid the wooden cross upon His back.
Up Golgotha’s hill, He bore our load,
Where nails and scorn would leave their track.

And even then, the Lamb still prayed:
“Father, forgive—they do not know.”
As gamblers cast lots for His clothes,
And mercy continued to flow.

Beside Him hung two guilty men,
One mocked, and dared a sign from heaven—
The other bowed his heart in faith,
And Christ said, “You’ll be with Me in Eden.”

Then at the hour—three o’clock—
The earth did quake, the temple curtain tore.
The tombs broke open, wide and still—
The was a cry, then no more.

For on that tree, the Lamb was raised,
The One whom the angels praised:
“Glory to the King of Earth and Sky,
Born of a Virgin, born to die.”