Under the cross, the Christ is crushed,
And He staggers to the ground,
His loveblood pours from thorny wounds,
Yet He utters not a single sound;
The stony Roman soldiers encircle Him,
Watching for a menacing threat,
But with holy compassion for the Master,
You just want to wipe away His sweat.
Like an invisible angel you pass them by,
Focused on serving your Lord,
You approach to clean His bloody head,
A head that has been badly gored;
For the very slightest moment of time,
The weary Jesus has time to relax,
Then He presses His face into your cloth,
Like a signet ring pressed to warm wax.
The savage soldiers abruptly grab you,
Rudely and cruelly pushing you away,
But something catches your attention,
A hopeful sign on this sorrowful day;
Your eyes twinkle with sincere wonder,
And diminished are all your fears,
For there on your simple white cloth,
The bloody visage of Jesus appears.