“My God, My God, O why hast Thou
Forsaken Me?” we heard Him cry;
Not one of us could fathom how
God turned His back, and let Him die.
I couldn’t move; so I reproached
Myself for trusting such a fool.
Had every hearer failed to broach
The lunacy that He could rule
Our people? This man was no king;
In poverty, though skilled in trade,
He lived off others’ offering
While leading crowds in vast parades
Of desperate, dirty, damaged lives,
Whose confidence He swayed with words—
As one who easily contrives
Whatever draws the hopeless herds.
Then from the cross He met my eyes,
And held them ‘til my knees gave way.
From what, I could not recognize—
Nothing I knew, nor know today.
Then He was dead, and I cried now:
My God, my God, O why hast Thou