The Cross

Each of us drags a cross.
Plaited thorns our only crown,
We climb toward our own Golgotha,
Backs bent and faces turned down.
We think of the cup we accepted
And wish we had turned it away.
We think of the friends who'll deny us
Before the end of the day.
We shudder as rough hands bind us
And hope we don't cry aloud.
We try not to see our loved ones
Suffering among the crowd.
Near the end our hope is waning,
As the sky overhead turns black.
We pray that our god won't forsake us
And wish there was time to turn back.
Suddenly a kind voice reminds us
Of something we almost can't bear.
The cross is of our own making;
Our own thoughts put us there.

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