The Gate

old-gate

When Christ was fixed upon the cross
A thief to him for heaven pled –
The sky turned dark, all seemed a loss –
T’was for his gate the sheep was bled.

How shall we count the man who died?
Was it for naught the scoundrel cried?
The sky went black, the curtain tore,
And Christ the thief to heaven bore.

This poetic form is called a Rispetto.

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