The cruel morning wore a coat of dust and wind.
The road had carried many weary feet,
But never one who walked as He walked then,
Bent low beneath a rough and heavy beam.
It was not only wood upon His back.
The grief of countless hearts seemed resting there.
Each careful step He took stirred up the dust,
As if the earth could feel His silent pain.
The voices came like birds before a storm,
Restless and sharp, with little room for grace.
Yet through the noise another sound was born.
A silence deeper than the loudest cry.
His mother stood and watched Him from the crowd.
No words could reach the place where both had gone.
Their eyes met only for a passing breath,
And time stood still because it could do nothing else.
No promise needed speaking in that hour.
Love has a language words can never hold.
It simply stays when every other strength
Has quietly slipped away.
He stumbled, and the cross drove Him to earth.
The dust rose gently all around His face,
As though the ground itself wished it could help
The One who first had shaped it from the clay.
Still, even then, His thoughts were not His own.
He saw the women standing there in tears,
And asked them not to spend their grief on Him,
But on the days that still would come.
There was a peace that walked beside His pain.
It could not hide the wounds or stop the blood,
Yet somehow every step and every fall
Seemed held within a purpose far above.
The nails were driven through His hands and feet.
The sky grew dark before the day was done.
Each breath became a mountain left to climb,
Yet anger never found a place to live.
Instead He lifted what remained of breath.
“Father, forgive them.”
Nothing more was needed.
Mercy spoke where hatred had grown loud.
Beside Him hung a man whose life was spent,
A broken soul with little left to lose.
Yet in the shadow of a dying day,
Hope opened like a flower after rain.
A promise reached across the weight of death.
Not from a throne wrapped up in gold and light,
But from a cross where love refused to leave
Even those who had almost given up.
At last He said, “It is finished.”
Not as one who had been overcome,
But as a worker laying down His tools
When every task entrusted to His hands
Had finally been completed.
The wind moved softly through the waiting trees.
The hill stood quiet underneath the sky.
And though the world believed that love had died,
Love stayed in vivid colours.
Unbroken, Unburie and Unchanged.
Unburied