It is the same. The twisted strands . . . of barbed wire, flesh now torn of plaited curls, freshly shorn of woven briars, crown of thorn. The bruised reed . . . freely blowing, sown in the distant sod trampled underfoot, by pris'ners heavy trod plucked, unbroken in the Son of God. The laden hand . . . wielding power, such cruelty spent beyond belief wielding shovels, forced to submit without reprieve wielding the Cross, the nail now ready to receive. The parched lips . . . truth-starved, glutted pow'r corrupts thirst not slaked, the bitter cup wine with hyssop, lifted up. The bowed head . . . The feral feeding, sanguine hate Back broken from the scapegoat weight. Lamb’s sacrifice, now consummate. Yesterday, today, forever. He Is the same.
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