The Scourge

Hands bound and eyes upon
The ground, He is led in the
Manner of a slave - led, or driven -
But by whose hand? And where?

O Come, Come, Come...

This monumental meekness is
Something to behold - but no
Mother's hand tends him now, no word -
Perhaps He hears her sweet hum
Over the bitter lash's tongue.

O Come, O Come Let Us Adore...

The soldier's bloodless grip tightens -
At every stroke another river forms
And those who would not scorn -
Who stand aware of their iniquity,
The thousand ills that dwell within our flesh -
Can but see His Blood for what it is.

O Come, Let Us Adore Him...

He dares not lift His eyes -
Perhaps it is the pain. Or, maybe
He is once again at the bottom of the world -
Struggling to hide, with every rending stripe,
The radiant font where springs this Living Water -
The soul-blinding glance of His glory,
Not his shame.

O Come, Let Us Adore Him, Christ the Lord.