A suffering Servant,
slain for me,
bleeding there upon the tree.
As men pass by,
they rudely mock
the man around whom
people would flock.
He had the strength,
He had the power,
to help himself in
this evil hour.
Yet not a finger did he lift
to protest,
so he was hung among
the rest.
The thorns are pressed
into his brow.
Oh, what a horrid,
shameful crown!
His side, an oozing red mass
heaves with one last feeble gasp.
Then suddenly, he weakly cries:
�It is Finished� and then�
he
dies.