There was nothing really beautiful,
That would attract us to him.
A man of sorrows, was despised,
Rejected – by most that knew him.
His hands were calloused, worn and torn,
Like any man who toiled.
His garments were not spectacular,
But plain, road-worn and soiled.

But if you looked into his eyes,
The deepest peace you ’d see.
And in his voice a two-edged sword,
That made the demons flee.
His hands though rough but ready,
Great healing you would find.
To look upon his loving heart,
Is the reflection of God ’s mind.

But by man, he was beaten,
Oppressed, afflicted, betrayed.
Taken, nailed to a cross,
Then in the ground was laid.
But death it was not sovereign,
Over this sinless one.
For on the third day he arose,
Because he was God’s son.

© Gary Ivin.
(Inspired by Isaiah 53)




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