The Son of Man

From his eternal seat Christ comes down to this earth, where, ages ago, in
  the bitter cup of death He poured his deathless life for those who came to
  the call and those who remained away.
He looks about Him, and sees the weapons of evil that wounded His own age.
The arrogant spikes and spears, the slim, sly knives, the scimitar in
  diplomatic sheath, crooked and cruel, are hissing and raining sparks as
  they are sharpened on monster wheels.
But the most fearful of them all, at the hands of the slaughterers, are those on
  which has been engraved His own name, that are fashioned from the texts
  of His own words fused in the fire of hatred and hammered by hypocritical
  greed.
He presses His hand upon His heart; He feels that the age-long moment of
  His death has not yet ended, that new nails, turned out in countless numbers
  by those who are learned in cunning craftsmanship, pierce Him in every
joint
  They had hurt Him once, standing at the shadow of their temple; they are
  born anew in crowds.
From before their sacred altar they shout to the soldiers, ‘Strike!’
And the Son of Man in agony cries, ‘My God, My God, why hast Thou
  forsaken me?’