Dawn P. Ware
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He wasn't afraid, His life to Lay down,
Though pain for awhile was His dread.
There was no other way, to win the crown,
The heir, must be declared dead.
They lashed His back till His flesh did yield
His broken body was bloody torn.
By His torturous stripes, our bodies He healed
His victory over the flesh was born.
He choose, to hang on the agony tree,
For hours, His prospect was dim.
His precious blood, He shed for me,
And for all who would trust in Him.
Then willingly, He gave up the Ghost,
And the rest, of our battle, He'd win,
For yet ...