God chose the cross, not under force,
But by His own deliberate course
He shaped the world where truth must bleed,
Where love fulfills what justice needs.
Not for the taste of grief or pain,
But so that glory might remain
Unsoiled by ease, untouched by pride—
A God who gives, and stoops, and died.
Wealth given up, not torn away,
A will to serve, not to display.
No grasping hand, no selfish claim,
But Spirit breathed from living flame.
The Maker bows. The Judge forgives.
In dying, He alone still lives.
No contradiction, no facade—
His wounds reveal: This is our God.
This poem was made mostly by ChatGPT, but after a discussion about the necessity of suffering wherein I posted an entire theological essay that I had written. The program I wrote to quantify creative contribions in conversations rates my input towards the poem at about 30%, but it is clearly not smart enough (it uses mistral7b) to properly asses the contributions, as it found the essay mostly irrelevant. The true human contribution to the poem is thus likely higher.
