A poem by Elizabeth Jennings for Good Friday

It always seems to me that prose is not enough for some days, for some events, yet I've never really be able to write poetry - or not poetry I think much of or that says what I would like it to ...
On Good Friday I turn to poetry, and this year as last to Elizabeth Jennings

Friday
We nailed the hands long ago,
Wove the thorns, took up the scourge and shouted
For excitement's sake, we stood at the dusty edge
Of the pebbled path and watched the extreme of pain.

But one or two prayed, one or two
Were silent, shocked, stood back
And remembered remnants of words, a new vision.
The cross is up with its crying victim, the clouds
Cover the sun, we learn a new way to lose
What we did not know we had
Until this bleak and sacrificial day,
Until we turned from our bad
Past and knelt and cried out our dismay,
The dice still clicking, the voices dying away.

Elizabeth Jennings Collected Poems