Son Of The Father
I like a good back-story. I enjoy when a director pulls back the curtains on a much-loved character and allows us to peer into the decades that led them to this point. Recently I found myself wondering about a man whose life intersected with Jesus at a critical junction. His name, as recorded in the Scriptures, was Barabbas (Bar-Abbas, or literally, Son of the father). This poem is a way of exposing my fanciful imaginations, an attempt at wondering, what if?
Bar-Abbas
The old man's fingers trembled
As his body took the strain,
Not from the load he carried
But the weight of words that stained.
Words that robbed, words that cut,
Words that tore and hung.
"My ways are not yours, Father,
A new life I have begun".
This soul's ache, this tear, this throb,
Had not always been this way.
Now his heart rolled back the clouds
To sit in brighter day,
When age and youth sat, as it were,
In unified desire.
With single breath and matchless hope
Awaiting their Messiah.
Slow the years seemed as
Age and youth grew longer.
One content to object in quiet
While the other's zeal grew stronger.
So here stands age, with trembling hand,
Filling an open door.
His dreams had gone. His only son.
Just questions for what's in store.
Years fell away with unspoken words
And memories of jaded dreams.
Whispers of Zealot's who'd strike in the night,
Though not near enough it seems.
More whispers had passed of a Rabbi who spoke
Like none had done before.
But hopes of the Messiah had faded dim
When his son walked out that door.
Now the crowds gathering and then
Earth seemed to hold her breath.
His chest gripped him tightly
From some impending silent death.
Now swept along like a fight
That cannot alone be fought,
He finds himself standing on
The stones of Pilate's court.
Both men thrust before the throng
Were bloodied, beat, and torn.
Yet one stood calm and steady,
The other, dejected, forlorn.
Now as his eyes see past the blood
Through all that time had done,
The old man stumbled and fought for breath
As his eyes beheld his son.
Passion for God's purpose
Had born a bitter soul,
Who wrenched the gavel from God's hand
To meter out wrath's bowl.
From Zealot to thief, he found
His misery unstemmed,
Now more, a murderer -
Guilty. Convicted. Condemned.
So when the choice was given,
Who would suffer the tree and die?
T'was the frail voice of an aged man
Who was the first to cry.
"Give us Barabbas, a father's son,
I cannot lose him twice.
His sin is great, but he's my son—
The other must bear the price".
As Pilate gestured toward the Priests
It was certain that death be done.
The words that cried above the crowd
Were to secure his only son.
"Crucify him, crucify him,
He will not reign over me".
Then the crowd joined voice with his
And sent Jesus to the tree.
Then age and youth sit once again
In unified desire
With single breath and matchless hope
Awaiting their Messiah.
It was the younger who now spoke with
Tears streaming down his face,
"Father, now I see, it was He
Who took my place".
Now a different crowd had gathered
But still scared all the same,
As people heard a thundering and
Beheld the Spirit's flame.
They looked and saw just fishermen
Who spoke tongues of foreign men.
Then one stood up among them
Whose voice brought pain again.
The old man's fingers trembled
As his body took the strain,
Not from the load he carried,
But the weight of words that stained.
Words that robbed, words that cut
Words that tore and hung.
"It was you who crucified Him!
By you this wrong was done".
Before he knew it, without choice,
He heard himself cry out.
And what started as a whisper
Became a steady shout.
The crushing guilt of sin
Caused tears to cloud his view,
"Brother quick, please tell us now,
What is it we must do?"
Three thousand precious souls that day
Were saved from hell's wide door.
The older and the younger too
Among the crowd who saw
The light of the gospel of the glory of Christ
As it were, in Jesus' face,
And bowed their head, and bent their knee,
To the one who took their place.
