I am to blame; yet, I have been made blameless.
I am imperfect; yet, I have been perfected.
It is my lips that betrayed.
It is my voice that denied.
It is I who yelled, “Crucify Him!”
And mocked as He died.

I am a sinner; yet, I am seen sinless.
I am guilty; yet, I have been acquitted.
It is my hand that held the whip.
It is my wrath that tore His hide.
It is I who cast lots for His tunic
And thrust the spear into His side.

I am unrighteous; yet, He imputed righteousness
I am, under His wings’ shadow, protected.
It is my hand that drove the nails.
It is my wrong for which He was tried.
It is I who pled, “Lord, remember me,”
And was assured, “today in Paradise.”

I was bought at a high price; yet, I was worthless.
I deserve death; yet, will be resurrected.
It is my grave that He laid in.
It is from my Hell, He did rise.
It is I who crucified my Lord
And in my heart He does abide.

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