Golgotha seemed no risk to view,
As the Place of the Skull beckoned anew.
My heart hammered for I saw no escape
From the man with a shovel and tattered cape.
His shovel waved, as if to attack,
And he gave the ground a wicked whack.
He shoveled some dirt and filled a hole,
Then I recalled the story told.
After the Crucifixion, like one possessed,
To fill every hole was this man’s quest.
He said, “I caused His death, to my shame.
The hole for the cross was my blame!”
I replied, “Sir, he died for you and me,
To fill holes in our lives, don’t you see?”
As he stood weeping, his mind in shock,
I said, “Sir, we need to talk.”