Jesus falls for the third time

I wrote this poem this Lent. Now that I’m including a greater range of things on my blog, I just thought I’d share it:

No pious weakness this,
No pain proudly borne;
No token of flesh,
No easy, Godly scorn.

What Christ is this?
Dying weak, weak to die,
Falling on Calvary’s way
A stumbling stumbling-block, they say,
All blood, filth and thorns.

This Christ is he:
Who took his cup,
Who mocking-garland bore,
Loved the very hands that plaited,
Never them forswore.
They mocked and spat and cursed:
He suffered all the more–
For love; for love of
Those who tore.

No pious weakness this,
No pain proudly born,
No token of flesh,
No easy, Godly, scorn.

For the thud of every sin,
In every mallet blow,
Need not have grieved God’s hands,
Need not have brought him low,
If not that he had loved us,
Even in full fall.