Who am I, that you’d suffer and die;
That your innocent blood would let?
So that I’d be redeemed and now be free
to be the person I am not yet.
The nails that pierced your hands and feet
were my sins you chose to bear;
beaten and bruised on my behalf,
with thorns still in your hair.
They hung you among common thieves,
though you were spotless as the snow.
Oh, your love for me, no depth nor height
this world could ever know.
How weak my flesh that you should suffer
to wash my sins away.
There are not tears enough that I could cry
to thank you for that day.
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