Across the burning desert sands
The King of Heaven trod.
The Staff of Life was in His hands;
He wore the face of God.
A light shone from His burning eyes,
From purpose deep within.
Driven beneath the scorching skies,
He mocked the lord of sin.
As blisters formed upon his feet
He paid them little heed,
Prevailed against the desert heat
For there was so much need.
His eyes were fixed upon the goal
Of saving souls from hell.
He didnít grasp the tempterís bowl
Nor drink from Satanís well.
The bread He offered wasnít just
To feed the soulís he taught,
But God the Fatherís word of trust:
Redemption could be bought.
And when He suffered on the tree
And heard the crowdís cruel roar,
He knew not loss, but victory,
For all their sins he bore.
His skin grew cold, His hands turned blue,
He died upon the cross,
And in the icy tomb He lay
While all the world knew loss.
But up He sprang that Sunday morn
When angels bid Him rise
And Thus the Son of God, reborn,
Ascended to the skies.
Then bow in worship, shout in praise,
Let every convert sing,
While all the hosts of Heaven raise
A banner to The King!
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