the cup: a poem for Good Friday

the cup—
as deep as time, yet pre-creation filled
with anger, blood-thick, brimming,
breaking holy heart with plans for man—
cup-fillers—and for One, the Son,
who could not add a drop but did not stop
His dust-designing, Spirit-breathing,
choice-allowing plan to rescue
man.

the Man of Sorrows, Rescuer, foreplanned
Cup-Drinker, staggered by the thought of
fellowship lost with Father—brief eternity—
yearns for mercy, any other way to save
merciless murderers, friendless fiends who
scream for blood on wooden beams.
“Father, let this wrath-cup pass,
yet not My will…” the answer, only
silence.

willing, ready, joy-pursuing,
mercy-laden Lamb, Messiah, stands
and grasps with piercéd hands
the cup of wrath
alone.
then drinking down unmellowed fury,
staggering, certain, undeserving Sacrifice
sufficing holy plan’s demand by
quaffing final dregs and drops, ‘til
righteous wrath is satisfied with
“it is finished!”

my bitter drink exchanged for pain and blood.
His bloody death exchanged for mercy, free and full.
the Father’s mercy calls me, bids me daily look
inside the wrath-cup Christ took, drank, and drained—
forever
empty.