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by Mark Spencer © 1997

I am broken in my spirit,
As I stand by helplessly,
A witness to your suffering,
Unable to set you free.

Your blood has drenched the granite floor;
Your tormentors laugh with glee.
In my disgrace, I understand…
You are doing this for me.

Lord, I'm not worth enduring this,
It is more than I can bear.
At your command, I'll draw my sword;
I will fight for you - I swear!

But silently you persevere,
Through the torture and the pain.
They tear your flesh and spill your blood,
The cruelty is profane.

The scourging lasts the afternoon,
And though you can hardly stand,
These men are not yet satisfied,
It's your life they now demand.

With that crossbeam on your shoulders,
You are marched toward your death.
Through tear filled eyes, I cannot see,
And can scarcely catch my breath.

As nails are driven through your hands,
Your blood splatters on my robe.
And I can't recall another,
Who has suffered so, since Job.

The agony that you've endured,
Unimaginable pain.
Yet, through that ungodly torture,
Never once did you complain.

And now you hang upon that cross,
On display for all to see.
Mere words cannot express my shame,
For what you've suffered for me.

The sacrifice that you have made,
The salvation you impart;
I won't take these gifts for granted,
They are always in my heart.

I have never felt deserving
Of my Lord's compassion.
I'll try to earn what I've received,
Through my Savior's passion!

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