A Poem for Good Friday

(It's not quite finished, but I thought I'd share it, anyway.)

The sky grows black,
Dark as night,
For on a Cross,
Hangs the Light.
I weep to look
at the sight;
How can this be?
This isn't right!

This King came down
to His own.
In Heaven left
He his throne,
They would believe,
Had they known;
Their hearts were dead,
Hard as stone.

So now my King
Hangs to die,
Beneath a dark and
Solemn sky.
"It is finished!"
Is His cry.
And I am weeping,
Why, why, why?