Poetry
with the tip of my finger....
i feel the cold, hard stinger...
a beatin' hunk, of created iron...
fashioned & formed into a miserable spire...
holding it firm, upon the hand that heals...
i strike it home, with deadly zeal...
upon my face, mingled with His...
sweat and Blood, find no mix...
for all my hate, cannot negate...
His amazing work, of God's Awesome Grace...
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this poem suggests that all of us, in a sense were there... we all... in rebellion... hated Him... and put Him to death, with our own hands.