Judgment Day Poem by James Tiberius

Judgment Day



Christ gave his life for you and me, we hear it all time:
Died for our sins, sins of the world, the sins of yours and mine.

But do we ever stop and think, each time we hear his word,
Of the beating that really happened, that Christ our Lord endured.

The whip they used had nine long strands, each strand they added barbs.
They were designed to rip the flesh and tear it into shards.

This scourging that occurred on Christ was to literally tear him down.
They mocked him, too, upon his head they placed that thorny crown.

You know the man who whipped our Lord, as he got in position,
Had been told to "make it hurt, " so he was on a mission.

"Judgement day" for he and Christ. As he gave the whip a jerk,
He knew he would be judged that day for the quality of his work.

Thirty-nine chances to make Christ scream, to tear the man apart.
Many had died by the crack of his whip, to him it was an art.

His "greatest work, " he probably thought, for this he would be known,
He'd rip through flesh and peel it back, tearing down to bone.

Thirty-nine chances, one-by-one, Christ's blood would surely flow.
He used his flagrum, this whip with nine strands, to deliver every blow.

He focused the location of every swing to maximize the pain,
He'll earn his pay on this fine day. He wants Christ's blood to rain.

So much practice over the years,
a defining moment among his peers.
This was his apex, his glory, his perk.
This will be his defining work.

Twenty lashes in, Satan had guided his hand so fine,
Flesh falling on the ground in pieces, he gave his flesh for yours and mine.

Nineteen lashes left and Satan slows down time.
He quietly whispers to Jesus, "I've got you, now your mine."

"Where is your FATHER,
where are your friends?
Stop this NOW! You can
make this end.
With merely a thought
you can end all this pain;
What are they to you?
What have you to gain? "

Time came back, crashing down, from the handle of the whip.
Eighteen to go, blow after blow—down to bone, starting to chip.

Time stopped again, Satan came back,

"You're alone, they simply
don't care.
Blink your eyes, think that
thought, there isn't time to
spare.
These last few strikes are
special to me; let's put this in
the past
‘Cause if you don't, dear
friend of mine, I've saved the
best for last."

The whipping kept on going, strikes guided by Satan's hand.
The pain beyond imagination, each time the whip would land.

"Three strikes left, and I'll
guide each strip,
each barb on every nerve.
Just end this now, put a stop to
this, a beating like this you
don't deserve."

As the man with the whip took his last swings, he slightly turned his wrist.
The strands spread wide like the spines of a fan, the barbs they didn't miss.

Blood and sweat and tears and drool come spilling to the ground,
Everyone watching, staring intently and listening to the whip's sound.

When you hear Christ died for you and me, take it "lightly" if you like. Or try to remember what it really means, strike after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, after strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike!

When giving thanks to Christ, I sometimes feel guilty as I pray
For what he endured, to forgive my sins,
on his and the whipping man's Judgement Day

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
First serious poem, ever - never wrote before...here goes...
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