By Dennis Blankenship
Jesus, the babe, was born to die,
That He might be the Lord on high,
Suffering on a cruel cross,
To save us from eternal loss.
Cradle to cross, it wasn’t long,
First, there stood the cheering throng,
But at the end, near a friend,
The wounds to heal, the heart to mend.
He came in history, in time and space,
That He, for man, might sin erase,
The Father soon must turn His face,
That man might have a resting place.
Buried, risen, ascended now,
Angelic hosts do humbly bow,
But soon He comes, our risen Head,
To take us home, just like He said.
He’ll claim His own, He’ll break the sky,
We’ll rule the world with Him on high,
Unblemished sons, no longer marred,
Come soon! Come soon, exalted Lord!
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.” —Isaiah 9:6
