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The Agony in the Garden4
Fearful, weary, sorrowful 'til the end,
He accepts the anguish, gives His consent.
Jesus' humanity begs for release,
But His divinity, added torments.
To endure all His sufferings to come:
Betrayal, beatings, rejection and death,
Abandoned by friends, forsaken by God,
An Angel soothes Him while sleeps His elect.
A tortuous procession of scourges,
Barbed crown and nails passes before His eyes.
My transgressions increase His wretchedness,
He is burdened by wrongs yet to arise.
Intense agony turns His sweat to blood,
That soaks the ground, dyes crimson His attire.
My sins make Him bleed, His tears to run red,
I, His torturer and crucifier.
My failings, not the lash, inflict His wounds.
He falls to the ground, by me He's undone.
His sorrowful cry rises to heaven,
"I offer all, Father, for Your kingdom."
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The Scourging at the Pillar5
Jesus, spotless lamb, scourged to please the crowd!
Pilate, there is no crime more horrible!
Flogged like a slave for us enslaved to sin!
To scourge a God! Unimaginable!
Blushing with shame, He was stripped of His clothes.
Totally meek, the pillar He embraced.
Head bowed, He humbly awaited the lash,
To be given by torturers enraged.
Breast beaten, shoulders struck, both His legs slashed,
Even His hallowed face suffered the blows.
Crimson the column and tormentors' hands.
Painful stripes caused His holy blood to flow.
No spot was left whole, flesh cut to the bone.
Willpower alone did keep Him alive,
To suffer still more for the love He bore,
And from the devil our souls to deprive.
Behold the Man! Is there no pity for Him?
Drained of blood, exhausted, hands bound by cord,
Wounded from sacred head to blessed feet.
Behold the Man! Our Lacerated Lord!
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The Crowning with Thorns6
Soldiers dragged Jesus to the palace hall,
Where they aimed to mock Him as a false king.
They stripped and cloaked Him in rags of purple,
Color of royals, now shame it would bring.
Holding a reed-scepter in His right hand,
Crowned with a circlet of thorns, out of breath,
Enduring the pain of needles on nerves,
He'd suffer from the thorns until His death.
Submissive, like a sheep led to slaughter,
He only sighed bitterly from the hurt.
Though blood bathed His face, drenched His features red,
Naught would stop Him or His mission avert.
Striking His sacred head hard with a reed,
The soldiers sought to make the thorns sink more.
Saluted, slapped, taunted and spat upon,
He was treated with scorn, one to abhor.
Bleeding, bowed, He was brought before Pilate,
Who, facing the crowd, said, "Behold the Man!"
To see Him so punished, one would judge Him
The most wicked criminal in the land.
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Carrying of the Cross7
Fearing Caesar, Pilate sentenced Jesus,
Once blameless, now doomed because of His crime.
He submissively accepted His death,
Not out of guilt, but His love for mankind.
Egged on by demons, they seized and stripped Him,
Replaced His ragged cloak with His own clothes.
Face disfigured, beyond recognition,
They feared He would not be known by His foes.
He took up His cross, several feet in length,
Of heavy coarse wood that cut His shoulder.
Thirty-three years He'd prepared for this day,
Time for the Lamb to die on this altar.
He and two men condemned for law-breaking,
Began their sad journey to Calvary.
Behold the Man just blessed with palms Sunday,
This carpenter-convict from Galilee!
Cross made heavy by the weight of our sins,
His body bent, knees atremble, He falls.
So little strength remains, blood still dripping,
He continues His march. Golgatha calls.
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The Crucifixion8
They stripped Him and flung Him down on the cross.
Then stretched His hands and feet toward the nail holes,
As nerves and veins snapped and exposed His bones.
Prophecy fulfilled holy men foretold.
It was our transgressions that caused Him pain:
The nails that pierced His hands, our sins of touch;
Our fleeing Him, the nails that stabbed His feet;
Evil thoughts, thorns that hurt His head so much.
He suffered without respite on the cross.
Sagging down to rest His hands, hurt His feet;
Pulling up to rest his feet, rent His hands;
Leaning back, sharp thorns made His pain complete.
He forgave those who slurred and challenged Him,
Pledging heaven to the repentant thief.
He ached to see His mother grieve below.
It broke Her heart to see His life so brief.
Outcast, He still thirsted for souls to save,
For the pardon of sinners once condemned.
He knew that it was finishing for Him,
Starting for us - Paradise reopened!
His life ebbing, nature rebelled and caused
Light to darken, earth to shake, dead to rise.
His spirit was ready to be set free.
He sighed, gave His Father His soul, and died.
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