I can’t believe, I won’t believe,
That this is how it goes.
The King of Kings and Lord of Lords,
A victim of his foes!
The man who won the crowds with food,
With talks of realms of peace,
A fool, who should have used such power
To gain the Jews’ release!
For Rome could not have proved a match
For quickened Hebrew zeal,
The kind that often sparked their eyes,
While he would teach or heal.
But he is fixed upon a path
Of suffering and shame;
And says that such may be the lot
Of those who bear his name.
Pathetic! Just a mendicant!
No current house or trade!
Depending on the charity
Of friends, recently made.
And now he bids us share his feast
In Passover retreat…
Behold, the Master strips himself
To wash and soothe our feet!
A common slave would do the task
In any other case,
But Jesus still perversely seeks
The lowly servant’s place.
It is enough! I can’t go on;
Hence, I have seized a plan
To set the stage for his arrest,
And merchandise the man.
Jesus, you proved a dreamer
That the times can ill afford.
I can’t believe; I won’t believe;
And so I leave, M’Lord.