Haste, haste!
The storm clouds still obscure
The sky, but worse, the darkness
Of the Sabbath looms.

Haste, haste!
To pull the blood-slick nails
From flesh now unresisting,
Blood no longer flowing.

Haste, haste!
To lower the once-living form
And lay it in the waiting shroud:
No time for spices, they must wait.

Haste, haste!
To carry our beloved One observed
By soldiers and centurion who said,
“This man was truly God’s own son.”

Haste, haste!
The tomb at hand, the body placed
To wait two nights until
We may return with spice.

Haste, haste!
For now, all done which may
Be done, our eyes may stream
With our Good Friday tears.

The image is by Waldemar Flaig.