You spread your hands out in love,
Chose not to love yourself more then I.
You choose the hard life, sad life,
A life that you did not deserve,
That’s how much you loved me.
Your love was not without a personal price,
You laid it down for me,
That my life may be raised up.
As I look at the picture of you on that cross,
Your head scarred with a crown of thorns,
Your body stripped of flesh,
Your hands and feet with nails to hold you up
Your side pouring its contents to the ground.
You showed your love for me,
Died a death of shame,
That I may live a life of victory.
But you rose again, that I may know,
That death is not the end,
Only a beginning.
I look to your cross always,
My symbol of victory.

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