The ninth of all the hours, cruelest, black,
no mother wants a child go through this pain,
forsake Your only son, why not abstain,
return to him? Instead You turned your back.
His death had impact to the world that’s ours,
but at what price, and causing so much grief,
a mother sees her son die for belief,
in cruelest black, the ninth of all the hours.
To die this way, his mother at his side,
what kind of father are You, asking this?
What had he done? – What has he done? For me?
Perhaps my questions are a sin, not right,
and maybe I should find his cry a bliss:
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani!”