As
drops of blood seeped from His pores
Crying
Abba Father
The
bitter cup did not pass from Him
“Not
my will but thine be done”
Perfect
Son
As
they mocked and beat Him
With
thorns upon His head
He
opened not His mouth
Stricken,
smitten, and afflicted
Lamb
of God
As
the nails pierced though His skin
Excruciating
pain
He
could have called down angels
Yet with
His blood He bought us
A
curse upon a tree
As
He felt the scorching wrath of God
Decent
to hell on our behalf
Anguish
in His soul
The curtain
tore from top to bottom
Truly
Son of God
As disciples
grieved His loss
Death
could not have victory
He
rose triumphant on day three
The
Serpent’s head was bruised
King
of kings