He Never Was of the Pharisee's Cloth

A man called Jesus, worked and taught hated for no Reason, gives me thought? Betrayed by those He was To save, the men of cloth spat in his face, He was tortured killed and placed in a rich mans grave.' A squad of roman soldiers made, security sure That Truth be known to me and you' with temple guards And a seal affixed, once the stone was rolled, to halt Any tricks, despite their measures The Lord arose upon The third He placed His old clothes; neatly folded the job Was done, the dead awoke to walk, and the gaurds did run He met His followers, He taught anew; such messages Have travelled over many a pew, He's calling still He builds In grace, indeed, no' He was not of the cloth.' Yet He owns This place.'