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In your early thirties,
They hung you there to die,
On a tree so heavy,
"Abba Father", you did cry.
They beat you with their whips,
Embedded thorns upon your head,
Nailed your hands and feet to it,
And left you there for dead.
Your body badly beaten,
The flesh torn off your back,
A man of peace and healing,
Bore those angry mens attack.
I know you did it for my sins,
The ones that you foretold,
You gave me grace and mercy,
More valuable than gold.
When they hung you on that cross,
My name you shouted out,
All my sins were washed away,
You took away my doubt.
Your blood was shed so painfully,
But when your body rose,
The knees all bowed in unison,
Even your murdering foes.
Your perfect body soared,
After three days in the grave,
Up to Heaven, through the sky,
Our debts were fully paid.
At the right hand of your father,
You came to rest and stay,
A holy, sovereign God of all,
We celebrate each Easter Day.
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