Jesus In Isaiah
I gave my back to smiters. My cheeks, they plucked hair from my face. My visage was marred more than any man. They spit upon me in disgrace. Who has believed our report, and to whom is the Lord revealed? He has no form or beauty. When we saw Him our face we concealed. He's despised and rejected of men. Full of sorrow and acquainted with grief. We hid our faces from Him. We treated Him worse than a thief. Yet 'twas He who carried our sorrows, and He who bore our griefs. He was wounded for our transgressions; the chastisement of our peace. All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned everyone to his own way. And the Lord laid on Him, for you and me, all of our iniquity. Oppressed and afflicted, yet He spoke to no one. As a lamb before, its shearers is dumb. Denied fair judgment, a thing that should sicken. Cut off, and for our transgression was stricken. He was buried with the rich, but he died with a thief. It pleased God to bruise Him, and put Him to grief. He laid down His life, an offering for sin. I'm sure if He had to, He'd do it again.
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