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The sun was setting in the sky, the wind it bared a chill,
Three planks of wood arose and stood upon a sacred hill,
The sky was growing darker, the lights they all went out,
Through the gloom and darkness three figures you could count,
They hung dead and lifeless, upon three wooden crosses,
While others stood and stared, dumbfounded by their losses,
They pondered, all perplexed by what had just occurred,
And how this man the middle one, had died, it was absurd,
The man had been arrested, tried and sentenced to be killed,
Beaten, bashed and mocked was he a prophecy fulfilled,
His arms were held on bits of wood and nailed into place,
He didn’t scream or protest, or defend his blameless case,
They held him up, exalted; exalted into shame,
They screamed at him and jeered, mocking at his pain,
Upon the cross he bore my sin, sitting on his shoulders,
And ashamed, I hear my voice call out among the scoffers,
Those nails, driven in his hands; them, they bore my name,
But he; he took them to the cross, baring all my shame,
The sun was setting in the sky, the wind it bared a chill,
The king of kings was killed for me, upon a sacred hill.
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