Beneath the cross, where shadows bled and grew,
A lone disciple stood, his heart a stone,
While others fled, their courage torn in two,
He lingered there, in grief’s unyielding moan.
The sky turned black, a shroud of anguished cries,
The nails, the spear, the weight of sin bore down,
Yet John remained, with tear-streaked, burning eyes,
A witness bound by love to Christ’s torn crown.
No thunder shook his feet from that dark hill,
Though fear like thorns sank deep into his breast,
His soul, a flame, held fast by sacred will,
Amid the storm, he found a fragile rest.
One heart stood firm where others’ faith was lost,
Hold near the cross no matter what the cost.