So Jesus came out, a crown of thorns on His head
Robed in purple by those who wished Him dead.
And they slapped Him in the face,
The One who created them, they sought to abase.

And Pilate said to them, “Behold the man!
Shall I crucify your King as you plan?”
“We have no king but Caesar,” the crowd replies.
“His blood be on our children, even when he dies!”

They strike Him with the reed He made,
Mocking the Law they’d not obeyed.
Still like the Lamb to the altar,
He is silent; He will not falter.

He knows He soon will be killed,
He lets it be, that scripture is fulfilled.
He’s a greater Moses, who chooses to be stricken,
Because many Saints His death will quicken.

To Golgotha Simon carries the cross of Jesus,
Nails driven into Christ’s hands – that He might free us.
They raise the tree,
And cursed is He.

Cursed is every man who hangs on a tree.