‘Thorn’

What sort of man could do what he can?
The lame can walk, the blind can see.
Enriching the poor, the curtain he tore,
And what does he ask? Just, ‘Follow me’.
He is the vine, that make the new wine.
I am the branch, the leafless shoot.
His is the power that brings me into flower.
His is the life that bares the fruit.

No-one can explain the depth of the pain
His body endured before the end.
No-one can assess the loneliness,
Mocked by his foes and deserted by his friends.
Every sin is the thorn in His skin.
Every scourge pays the debt of a lie.
Each word of harm is the nail in His arm.
To set me free, to set me free, to set me free was His reason to die.

He knew the date, set to meet His fate.
He knew the place and He knew the time,
The one who betrayed and the price he was paid.
He knew the charge; the truth was no crime.
Every-one in the crowd, that was to curse Him aloud.
He knew them all before the world began.
He knew the least that are to be at His feast,
He’s got them all in His master plan.

He’s crucified, our last hope has died.
The men of the world now with him are dead.
He’s rolled back the stone, God’s power He’s shown.
His church is alive and He is the head.
He made the trail where others had failed.
Footprints as clear as the day they were made.
He leads us straight through the narrow gate.
Leading to life if His will is obeyed.

Composer: Robert Bathurst

Lyricist: Martin Day
© M Day 22-Apr-1980