With sadness in His furrowed face,
with sorrow in His eyes,
with stench of blood and streaming sweat
with death heard in His cries -
could we not tell, when grimaced He,
in pain we couldn't hear,
in anguish so, He couldn't hold
that first initial tear?
From One so pure and innocent,
from One who suffered loss,
was One who sacrificed for us
on such a wicked cross,
where one tear found an opening,
accompanied by more -
to open up the floodgates there,
as never seen before.
But were the tears that Jesus shed
from just the pain He bore?
Or were the tears that soaked His face
from something even more?
They were not tears of happiness,
or stirred up tears of joy.
They were not tears of anger's rage
or tears that would destroy.
His tears were mixed with sweat and blood
that poured down from His face,
then dripped upon His heaving chest
and quickened to a place -
a place where burdens rested,
a place so torn apart,
but place sincere and sacred too -
His heavy laden heart.
A mother knows the pain of love
when children disobey.
She'll cry for hours, days and weeks.
There is no other way -
no other way to share her tears
than blend them in a prayer,
and send them up to Jesus where,
they mix with His tears there.
So take a look at Jesus' tears
and do they not comprise,
of grace and vast eternal love
just like a mother's eyes?
Produce a single tear, can I,
acknowledging my years,
that Jesus sacrificed for me
in everlasting tears?
This poem won first place for the August 2012 poetry contest