The frenzied mob, ferocious, fearing nought,
Pressed closer, shouting for the life they sought,
And raised their voices in a mighty flood:
“On us and on our children be His blood.”
The scarlet stains, on that spike-studded cross
Where hung the bleeding body, with each toss
Of pain re-echoed that rebellious cry
Until it reached beyond the vaulted sky.
Soon streets ran red; and women, children, men
Were slain with sword: and through all time since then
The rebel race has had its wish fulfilled.
His blood on them, they were despised and killed.
But another cry had reached the Father, too.
It was: “Forgive; they know not what they do.”
And those forgiven can pray amid sin’s flood,
“Lord, on us and our children be His blood.”