You chose the way, crawled toward that day,
destiny drawn in blood before time began,
designed the way of sorrows,
staggered down that Via Dolorosa.
You forged the nails
for your own crucifixion,
grew the tree hewn
to bear your bloodied body,
the bush that thrust out thorns.
You guided the hands that wove
the robe on which they gambled at your feet,
knew the Centurion who stabbed your side,
before his mother spoke his name.
You created the rocks that split,
the light that became darkness,
the angels who
turned their faces away.
You did it all.
To rescue me.