The sun still glows in the sky,
but Christchurch, bound by name and heritage,
stands silently, as its domes echo with a sacred memory.
Once a city of joy, now a scarred shadow of its former beauty.

As the faithful bent in sujud,
a devil slipped through the sacred doors,
desecrating peace, shattering humanity.
The prayer mats, once soft with devotion
became cold deathbeds,
and the shroud of darkness unfurled across the city.

Holy Friday, meant for peace
became a page of blood in history’s book.
We recall the Good Friday when Christ was crucified,
and once more, humanity faced its tragic mirror.

He was no foreign invader from distant lands
not born of Afghanistan, Syria, Palestine, or Iraq.
He was of Adam’s lineage,
but a demon had taken root in his mind,
a terrorist with no name, no race, no faith
only a soul enslaved by Satan.

Today, he is but a tombstone,
an empty legacy.
Hatred, a rotten apple,
he savored its poison with blood,
and died before his demise.

Yet, none is greater than forgiveness.
The people of this earth will remember him,
not in vengeance, but in prayer.