Bad Friday?

I come to sing, I come to pray, but then
I cast my eyes toward the floor, and there
I see my hands, I see the blood. What then
to do but take the nails, but take the spear,
and take my part in all that makes the world
so cold, so grave, so full of hopeless pride?

I take my place atop that hill. "Too much,"
I cry, "too much for me to bear!" and he
looks down and shows me pain, of all the world,
and shows me fear, of all the hopeless weak,
and shows me death, in all the weary cold,
and shows me life, more meaningful than all.

With all my fears and all my hopes I come
but still I cast my eyes toward the floor.