The Holiest of Fridays
To think upon His sacrifice
Is far too great for me
His blood for sin it shall suffice
Is dried upon the tree
The pain, the grief, the naked shame
The price I can not pay
He bled, He cried, His strength had waned
I carry on my way
His soul distressed, thrown to the ground
The face of glory weeps
Within the gate I hear the sounds
And drift off back to sleep
His bruises swell, His bones collapse
I freely breathe with ease
His warring angels yet dispatched
My heart won’t bend a knee
Without defense His open palm
No marks until the nail
My hand is clenched and wrapped upon
From deep within the jail
He dragged that cross to His own grave
The place I will not go
The Father’s Son had died to save
No tears of mine will flow
To think upon His sacrifice
Is far too great for me
His blood for sin it shall suffice
Is dried upon the tree
