Beneath an Eastern Sky
A poem by Albert Benjamin Simpson
Beneath an eastern sky,
Amid a rabble’s cry,
A man went forth to die
For me.
Thorn-crowned His lovely head,
Blood-stained His every tread;
Cross-laden, on He sped
For me.
Pierced through His hands and feet,
Three hours there on Him beat
Fierce rays of noontide heat
For me.
Thus wast Thou made all mine:
Lord, make me wholly Thine:
Grant grace and strength divine
To me.
In thought and word and deed,
Thy will to do, O lead
My soul, e’en though it bleed,
To Thee.
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