It should be me who wears a crown of thorns
Feeling the blood drip down my face.
But it isn’t.
It should be me who feels the lash of the whip
Feeling the burning wounds.
But it isn’t.
It should be me who is sentenced to death
Feeling the overbearing dread.
But it isn’t
It should be me who carries the cross
Feeling the splinter in my shoulder.
But it isn’t.
It should be me whose hands and feet are nailed
Feeling the blinding agony.
But it isn’t.
It should be me who is left hanging there
Feeling life slip away.
But it isn’t.
It shouldn’t be you, Lord, who bares the pain,
Feeling the weight of my sin.
But it is!
It shouldn’t be you, Lord, the only undeserving one,
Dying to save me.
But it is!
