I was not there, I did not see,
when they drove those nails inside of thee.
It hurts my heart.
Yet, I still feel the guilt and pain,
remorse for every misplaced stain,
upon your art.
Yes, though they knew you were God's son,
of all those souls, no not a one,
could look away.
Your crown of thorns, the tears of blood,
could not contain the humble flood,
of loving words you used to say.
Your gentle voice says, "It's only skin,"
you see it is what lies herein,
is what counts."
A gentle sigh, your spirit leaves,
and yet this soul believes,
I cannot denounce.
Those precious nails that held you fast,
the life and death which came at last,
salvation won for you and me.
Gentle Savior, who walked on earth,
predestined at his birth,
to rise again and set us free.
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