His Sorrowful Hour
Gethsemane's fragrance soothes our Lord,
In prayer He kneels and rends His Heart.
He pleads for mercy but His hour has come,
Our chalice to be drunk, consumed by the Word.
Led away to the dungeon cell,
Cold and stark, prepared for hell;
Stripped and striped, the bell
Of death sounds its knell.
Weak and exhausted, the robe
Of a King adorns His Grace,
The Crown of Thorns spike His face.
Mockery and spittle leave their trace.
Through narrow ways, along pebbled stone
The Victorious beam He bears for all,
The crowd hurl insults, hear his groan,
They smite His Cross of gall.
Nailed and humiliated, cries of pain,
Hoisted high, feeling the strain,
Crushed for love, for all to see,
This mortal man of deity.
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