Ask why

A Babe doth lie
In a manger crib,
The Son of God on high,
And child from Adam's Rib.

Ask why

He's born where beasts abide
And shelter in a stable,
And not where kings reside
With feasts upon a table.

Ask why

He chose a humble lot
With hurts out there ahead,
And why He's chosen not,
An easier lot instead.

He's God and needn't die
Nor for sin succumb...
A thorn would satisfy,
A sticker in His thumb.

As a newborn, no older,
A chill to His skin,
A coldness on His shoulder,
Would've ransomed for sin.

The cross and the nails,
It need not be;
Nor sufferings nor flails,
For you and me.

Then why?

John Riedell


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Site Last Updated on 07/11/06