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    Christ held his nail-torn hands unclosed
    To give us grace;
    In wide embrace
    His open arms were posed.

    His feet, which nails held fast to stay
    The vengeful path
    Of righteous wrath,
    Awaited us who stray.

    He wore a crown of thorns, not gold,
    To lord it thus
    Not over us,
    But serve his little fold.

    The side a lance had split apart,
    As water streamed
    And blood redeemed,
    Formed windows to his heart.

    Oh, would that all the wounds that scored
    Hands, feet, and head,
    And side that bled
    Might heal our wounds, O Lord!

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