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The Rightful King

by Rob Dilworth © 2017

Our sin proclaimed, as one defamed,
To pay the price for all our wrong.
A judgment made, as one betrayed,
To take the guilt of cursed throng.

The lashing whip was just a sip
From dreaded cup of bitter drink.
Their hateful cries were filled with lies,
And carved in flesh with living ink.

The pounding nails and tortured wails
Released the flow of mercy’s flood.
Each drop he bled, a crimson red,
Was payment made in precious blood.

The darkest black of sin’s attack
Was mirrored by the darkest day.
His only son, the righteous one,
Became the lamb on which they prey.

Our humble King, now suffering
And straining with each painful breath.
I stand here awed the Son of God
Would give away his life in death.

He breathed his last. I stand aghast
As he is buried in a grave.
A stone is rolled and sealed to hold
His body in a gloomy cave,

With entry barred by Roman guard;
The best they had were standing there.
Angelic light brought quite a fright;
A ghastly, petrifying scare.

They should have known the largest stone
Would never stop the rightful King.
For even death was short on breath,
And lost its painful, dreaded sting.

For Christ arose; defeated foes
And took his place upon the throne.
And there he rules, in spite of fools,
Until he comes to claim his own.

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