by Jon Seccombe
Scorned and despised, man to sorrow born.
Crushed and afflicted, all without word.
Silent to His foes, none held Him dear.
Partner to grief, now condemned.
Pierced for our faults, broken for our wrongs,
How could we know for us, He gave His life.
And the peace of my soul was bought
with His blood. From prison He came, to die for me. And
with His lashings I was healed.
My stripes were laid on Him, All for me, suffers strife and death.
For me, he suffered strife and death.
Who was aware He suffered for me?
Buried as a criminal in a rich man's grave.
Children, He had none, death drained His joy.
His life was seized offered for guilt.
No evil had He done, no evil He spoke.
For God's plan was made to bruise Him grevously.
And so His soul is offered for sin.
When all's fullfilled, He shall come again.
Children, He will have, always to live.
We are His heirs, prospering in Him.
Knowledge of His acts satisfies His pains.
His is the power, the glory of the Lord.
© 1995 Jon Seccombe