25/04/2025
*The Crucifixion of Christ On Good Friday*
He came in skin like polished coal,
With fire and mercy in His soul,
Not riding chariots of Rome,
But walking dust roads close to home.
He strolled through plains
where acacias grow,
And felt the sun’s unyielding glow.
No sandals gold, no silken thread—
Just calloused feet,
a thorn-crowned head.
Christ came to His—yet none believed,
His voice of truth was not received.
The meek, the lost, the poor He fed,
But still they chose Barabbas instead.
A Black man crowned
with thorns and lies,
Looked heavenward
with tear-stained eyes.
“Forgive them, Lord—they do not see
They’re killing Love on Calvary.”
They carved a Christ of ivory hue,
And said the Black man’s not the true.
They taught the world His face was pale,
While nailing Him with every tale.
But He had walked where lions tread,
And cradled lambs where rivers bled.
His voice had thundered
through the trees,
And echoed soft on desert breeze.
He came from where the cradle’s deep,
Where ancient drums and spirits sleep.
Yet still they stripped His truth away,
To fit their mold of white and gray.
On Good Friday, they hung Him high,
And watched the Savior bleed and die.
But little did the proud men know—
That buried seeds in darkness grow.
So now the tomb stands rolled away,
And dawn has chased the night from day.
But still we search in stained-glass gloss,
And miss the truth nailed to the cross.
The Son of Man wore charcoal skin,
And bore the world’s consuming sin.
He rose not whitewashed, pale, or tame—
But radiant in His truest name.
For Christ was never a stranger here,
His voice still speaks—His presence near.
©️WhitewashedBlackJesus