Dear Editor:

It began on Monday when a man rode into town.

The man was a prophet, so some said, bound

To save mankind from the rampart of eternal Hell.

But as I, a stranger from lands afar, "What of this?" pray tell.

"Look upon his face," said this man named Saul.

"Look and see the beauty of salvation for us all."

"What?" said I, "The priests forbade Him to come,

And yet He violates the voice of Ceaser's kingdom!"

"His kingdom, is not of this vile place,"

Said Saul, "To enter His land you must live in grace.

But let us not here converse, pray tell follow Him,

And behold the radiant light for a moment grow dim."

In doubt, I went to learn while He talked.

And such a man was not angered when He was mocked,

That I felt uneasy and sad,

As the soldiers, on that Thursday, drug Him away with great insults,

And yet He was not mad.

I know not what happened, but this I heard:

He was taken to the prison and there was scourged

Until he bled and murmured not a word

Of revenge, but He looked upon all forgivingly and with love.

And in the deep of the night there flew in the sky the

most beautiful, most white virgin dove.

That Friday, Oh! What an ugly day,

As He was tried, convicted and sentenced to pay

"For blasphemy," So the judges said,

"You will hang on the cross until your body lie dead."

He took up His cross and slowly carried it up the hill.

He staggered like a lamb going to the kill.

He fell three times and rose again

To save mankind from the curse of sin.

At noon, my eyes refused to behold

His body outstretched on the cross, slowly grow cold

From seepage of life from His soul.

"Rejoice," someone said, "For sorrow is joy, just as He told

Us to have faith and fear not death,

For life may end with your next breath.

He died at three, "Only to rise again" someone said.

"What! You fool," said I, "He is dead!"

I left that city that very night

Unable to bear my foolish fright.

He arose, I've been told.

And since, my soul have I sold.

For I am tired and weak,

For nearly two thousand years, the answer I seek

Was before me on that Friday at the hour of three.

For I, too, died then in the year 33 A.D.

Joseph P. Kubert

Hometown