They slept and slept with weary eyes
while Jesus prayed with teary eyes.
He prayed in earnest while they slept,
He prayed in earnest while they slept,
but answered faithful. He'd accept.
It wasn't me.
The night was looking mighty grim.
Then came, they, and arrested Him.
The charge was simple: blasphemy.
He didn't plead nor disagree.
It wasn't me.
And this is how the story goes:
They stripped Him of His humble clothes.
With bone-tipped violence He was whipped
and ev'ry time His skin was ripped.
It wasn't me.
It wasn't something He could toss.
He dropped that very heavy cross.
None could stop them, stop them now
as sweat poured off His heavy brow.
It wasn't me.
They mocked Him with a crown of thorns.
The hate, the words, the sword, the scorns.
It's hard to fathom these details,
then sore, He bore barbaric nails.
It wasn't me.
His sacrifice was perfect love
both here on earth and Heav'n above.
It could have been a total loss
but Christ, Himself, endured that cross.
It wasn't me.
God's solemn will would then prevail,
and tore from top to bottom, veil.
Yes, Christ was hung for my sins then.
It wasn't me... but should have been.
©2022 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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