Your dead man hanging on a tree
Did not die for you or me,
Not for our sins, since we were not even born.
Then for whose, may one ask?
Since our ancestors were not even there,
Our people unheard of in that bleak desert,
His people unheard of on our green hills.
What sins were those, may one ask?
Did anyone know what they had done wrong,
For what they were being absolved?
And how, may one ask, did that gruesome death
Advance humanity one iota?
We have invented worse ways to die,
We murder and maim babies even,
And what, may one ask,
Does your dead man on the tree
Have to say about that?
To kill on such a grandiose scale
Your dead man on the tree could never have imagined.
He could? He did?
Then what, may one ask, is the sense in that?