Raymond A. Foss Poems

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His palms, his hands
stabbed by the spikes
the nails that held him
fast to the rough-hewn
the wood of the cross
hoisting him high
his iniquity, his shame
heaped on him
Naked and bleeding
air not reaching his lungs
last breath coming fast
deep wounds in his side,
his feet, his hands
opening his arms, his palms
for forgiveness of our sin
taking on our shame
Restore us
to the loving father

March 12, 2008

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