Tortures were being dealt; blood ran down his face.
His tears weren’t for His suffering but for the world,
To offer His children a place in the security of Grace.
Oh Heaven must have grieved, while curses were hurled.
Nails penetrated his hands and feet, leaving a forever imprint.
A crown of thorns punctured his brow in mockery.
All the sinners could be forgiven, their penitence was heaven-sent.
Hung on a rustic cross, his blood stained the ground a pity.
Just because He loved His children with great devotion,
He bore the greatest pain without regret.
The thought of such a great sacrifice brings this emotion,
Such sadness that His blood was the price, the world mustn’t forget.
Dorothy E. Scott poetry99@txol.net
Copyrighted 2001