A man stricken who did no crime
Hands laced in blood, with dirt and grime
A heart who was sought to know only one story
A man who yearned to start anew and pave a way before me
A plan written meticulously through the bowels of time
A love that loved men and women past their prime
No father or mother to cover my hind
A pardon misunderstood throughout the storyline.
A story well written for the gentile many
In a garden of for-get me nots, he for-got not any.
A child, a man, as warrior, a savior
And life was the pause in history’s posture
The gatekeeper arrived to remove all my chains
A simple song with simple words “how he took my shame”.
So in silence I stood ashamed of it all,
And I reckoned him stricken, forsaking his call.
With every stripe and blow, my transgressed heart grows
Each stripe, each blow, each transgression I could know.
Yet you came for me, the holy one meant it so
To wrestle those iron fetter, a renewed heart made better.
How long til I find perfected thanks
Grateful is the wearied heart, grateful is the empty hand
Nothing commensurate to trade from this man
Nothing worthy to blot out my scorn
Nothing equal since in obscure silence a lamb that was born.
Becoming the blood to me, grace pardoned and mercy