St. Longinus

I found myself upon a hill

  with people all around;

Some stood mocking, some stood still,

  some wept upon the ground.

I knew them not, nor whence they came,

  from town and countryside,

To gather round and see this man,

  the one we crucified.

Was He the Christ, as some had claimed?

  Or King of Jews, or God?

Spoke He the truth, or was He mad?

  Or was He just a fraud?

I heard Him on another hill

  proclaim His Father’s love.

He said that He was not from here,

  but rather from above.

He said that all the poor are blest,

  the hungry, meek, and pained,

The pure of heart, and sons of peace,

  the merciful and shamed.

Yet, here’s this man, ‘bove all the rest

  in poverty and shame,

The king of Jews in mocking writ,

  the God who saves by name.

How could this man be Son of God,

  yet hang here on a tree?

And beg His God for mercy now

  for sinners, ‘specially me?

‘Twas I who nailed His hands and feet

  and pierced Him in the side.

‘Tis I who see the arms of love

  for sinners open’d wide.

As blood and water flows from Him,

  ‘tis now I truly see:

This man, He is the Son of God,

  and He just died for me.

• Image: “St. Longinus,” by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598-1680)