Hanging from the cross with a wicked grin dancing on his dry, cracking lips, his crooked smile mocks the world. His death ransoms only for a parade of cold followers, a regime of village sheep, bleating the montra:
'you can earn the heavens.”
This caricature king, a messiah crafted by the hands of fruitless men, will break his subjects under the heavy hand of demands for independent perfection.
This caricature king, a messiah crafted by the hands of fruitless men, will close the doors to the kingdom This caricature king will fall
This caricature king will crumble
This caricature king will fall
This false Lord trembles at Jesus' name
This false lord
This false lord
These religious giants preach an empty gospel; a strict ritual unworthy of the gracious title ‘Good news.
The true savior, the rightful king and redeemer, conquered the tyranny of death. By the outpouring of his precious blood, the gasping earth was given life's breath. By the outpouring of his precious blood 'It is finished,” said the son.
And the battle's won, we fight from victory. We fight from victory, and the battles won. We right from victory.
Grace abounds.
This is the Gospel.
I will not be ashamed.
I cannot be ashamed.
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