A few kilometers away, on the elevated Golgotha,
a man offers himself, his body shattered,
he bore the weight of a wounded world,
and in his sacrifice, he suffered for all.
“Father, forgive,” he whispers in agony,
the cross burns him, but it brings light to the day,
his spilled blood, redemption for the soul,
a boundless love, in perfect calm.
A few kilometers away, in Gaza they scream,
fallen bodies, dreams shattered,
the wind carries the echo of every wound,
the earth cries under the weight of a war,
where hearts drown in the soil.
Children who tremble, women who wait,
fear burns them, but all pray,
the bombs fall, the ground cracks,
and in every corner, hope shatters.
A few kilometers away, the echoes resound,
the sky witnesses starless nights,
and though centuries may come between them,
humanity continues searching for comfort in its grief.
The cross, a symbol of love and forgiveness,
the cry of Gaza, the clamor of a nation,
a “Passion of Christ” that never ends
and remains alive a few kilometers away.
