Walking down a crowded path,
carrying a heavy weight,
In his own blood he takes a bath,
as he carried his own death to his fate,
his blood poured from wounds of a whip,
leaving dark impressions on his back,
the nails went in his palms causing more blood to drip,
bearing all of this sinister act,
uttering no word or sound,
through it all he was raised,
astounding all on the ground,
because of this he should be praised,
dieing for us all so we may live,
bearing pain too hard to tell,
in life he did give,
as word of mouth and pen does spell,
his story lives on through us and his love,
then he was dead and all went black,
taken down and buried as god watched above,
then three days later he was back...