He was a man of many sorrows
Who stood before them all
They lied about His wondrous works
Denied Him as the Christ
They sent Him to the Governor
Demanding crucify
So Pilate ordered lashes for
This Man, condemned to die
He was spit upon and beaten
By those guards of Roman rule
A crown of thorns pressed on His head
Their laghter rang so cruel
They dressed Him in a royal robe,
And mocked Him as He stood
This bleeding man, this dying man,
This Crist, saw onlly good.
A beam was laid across His back
Which tore it as He walked
He stumbled many times, and still
His lips they never talked
No condemnation, from this man
His strength though at it's end
A visitor was forced to take
His cross, and on they went
They laid the main upon that cross
His limbs they nailed clear through
Then placed a sign above His head
That read, "King of the jews!"
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Then lifting it, the cross and Him
They sneered and called Him names
They cast lots for His clothes
And showed no pity and no shame
Though ridiculed by those around
He prayed, "Father forgive them"
His final words, He agonized
"Into Your hands, I commit My Spirit!"
And so the journey begins
To the Father's Holy Kingdom
So the journey begins
tearing down the gates of hell
And so the journey begins
Reconcile us to the Father
by His blood, His precious blood
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