It was one of those Fridays when workers
Weary from the week's toil groaned
Let us rest our tired bones
And heal our bruised limbs
It was the day when the mob,
Bloodied and out for blood,
Sought to make you their Christ,
To die at the hands of powers that
They all too often scorn
You will find that the rest
They deem fit to allow
Unlike what some of us had in mind
Will free you from their clutch
And lead you into the arms of him
Who await your coming
I bid you adieu
I send this world’s greetings to your master,
Him who has wrought havoc,
And planted the seeds
Of murder and mayhem
On the souls of such as these
Who befoul God's green earth.
