I wrote when I was 13:
The slaughtered saint rests,
his side pierced, the eyes gaze down
with sorrow on His breast.
Abba Father turns away to frown.
"Father, why have you forsaken me?"
"I turn my back from this time here,
so you may rise above, your soul be free."
Still He hangs, the darkness near.
The dark consumes the crowd of sins.
A blanket wet with weight of hate.
Cup holds blood of the fallen lamb.
A savior to some, but for some too late.