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Yet [*/+/^] : 27.225 MHz, Some Final Measures; Thorns
My sins are like thorns in my way that cast me down.
But this poem can assert that, in a metaphysical way,
they were plaited by sinful men into a crown
of thorns pressed hard upon the Savior's head---
more wounds upon Him, for which He profusely bled.
And though the world may glibly attempt to lie
about it, He gladly gave Himself to die
in my place and my death, no longer to be
the end of my life and my soul's destiny;
rather, I shall live with Him in His splendid Eternity.
J-Called
[*/+/^]
