Mankind, with His blood, He insured
The turns of the thorns in his palms He endured
With vinegar His thirst soon quenched
His garment, a bloodied tatter, drenched
Enshrouded in the tomb of disdain
Roman kinsmen rejoiced at the savior’s pain
Chimes and noisemaking, wines and merrymaking
They ate and drank with voracious craving
His adherents mourned and despaired
Nonetheless, His throne above already prepared
The cold shackles of death He triumphantly crushed
To eternal glory He sublimely vanished