Who is this man, they wag their heads.
They jeer him on, in his march of dread.
He is the one, who was born to die.
Someone shouted, from a plain on high.
The crowds have gathered, on a hill far away.
Poking and laughing, as he stumbles along the way.
Who is this man, who was born to die?
A lowly Nazarene, a carpenter did cry.
Isn’t he the one, who healed the sick?
Didn’t he cast out demons, from a lunatic?
This is the man, who was born to die.
A soldier brandished his sword, and rose it up high.
Steel on steel, echoed throughout the hill.
Not a word was uttered, from the one impaled.
Here is the man, who was born to die.
The people shouted, it is a lie.
The sky grew dark, and thunder was heard.
The man cried out, and uttered three words.
It is finished, they heard him say.
Born to die, had paved the way.
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