Jesus, thou gentle peacekeeper - ( who feels wounds far deeper than we, and wears his stripes proudly; who throws balm on shame, and physics pain. . . )

Your finest hour was spent in agony - ( on a tree that grew in eden; on a mountain made of bone; on a day that marked Forever - with saints and fools looking on. . .

Nails tore your hands and feet While thorns ripped at your brow If death could claim a life so sweet Who is the victor now ? While in the grave but three days time your name was muttered low; " Is this " they thought " the one who sought deliverance for our souls ? " Where is " they said " the one who bore the scars that we would know ? "

And at the place where Time began As angels stood before A stone was rolled away to show The Truth behind the door; That by those bleeding hands and feet And by that bleeding brow, Death was dealt a mortal blow. . .

Who is the Victor now?