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The Passion of the Christ


I am not by being bold,
Who believes in what is told;
Of a mystery unsealed,
As the power is revealed.

He grew up like a young tree,
With no form of majesty;
Like a root out of dry ground,
But mystified to spellbound.

He had nothing to appear,
That would be making us fear;
Or nothing to admire,
That would make us desire.

Yet despised and rejected,
With wounds He was afflicted;
He had sorrows and suffered,
That His people had mustered.

They had made Him a disgrace,
With each one turning their face;
As not considered any worth,
Like scum that was given birth.

So we have actual facts,
He died for the sinful acts;
Those He was trying to save,
From our eternal grave.


Copyright © 2010 Richard Newton Sherrer








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