Tradução gerada automaticamente
Smile On Me
Heath McNease
Smile On Me
King, Priest, and Prophet, hauled off to Golgotha, not just the loss of a Savior, the loss of a Father,
why did You bother lobbying for slobs like us who mocked such an honest and modest portrayal of love, I
don't stop, dwell, and concentrate on these thoughts often enough, on the cross and the blood, on the loss
and the monstrous cuts, on the thorny crown that bore down on Your brow, on the scorn and the mourning
ensuing the morning after, crowds and swarms yelling Barabbas drown out the voice of reason, insignificant
people so wicked and evil, leading You bleeding and pleading down the Via De La Rosa, Lord You bore shame
and reproach and were cursed by most men, hurt by the cursed ones You were born in a stable to save, from
the cradle to grave, all we've made is mistakes, kicked in the face, hit, smitten and spit upon, my
tears fall on the Scripture Your future was written on, the so-called heretic bare naked and shaking,
buckled knees caving caused by the tree in the shape of a T, nails breaking the skin, You were taking our
sin, placing it in the palm of Your hands for all men
You could've said 'Take Me away
I don't wanna stay
Take some other man on some other day
In some other way'
Blood dwindled away
Life withered away
No one else willing to pay
You could've said 'God this hurts so much
This burden is so tough
I'm flirting with death's touch'
But You came, touched lives and died lonely
And You died lonely just to smile on me
Is it the rain that stains my face or the tears, have I been right here for 5 minutes or 5 years, I can't
seem to move my feet, I can't breathe, can't seem to leave this tree, can't believe it's not me, it should
have been my likes crucified with spikes in my wrists, cold as ice and lifeless, alone and silent, only
Mother crying, but instead that's what Christ did, came in human form and was born and scorned by the
people in His likeness, despite this, He made wrong's right, shed light, forever the blessed protector of
my life, giver of sight, finally one foot moves, then another, then another, I better take cover cause
thunder is hovering over, the suffering is over, so is the battle now, the curtain splits in two,
Jesus I'll miss You, Jesus I'll miss You, I deserve the cross but You knew it had to be this way, had it
been me on that day I would've said 'Take me away!'
Two thousand years later You're still debated and You're hated, abated, and naked and bait for the fakest
naysayers ashamed of their daily charade, they masquerade in disarray and they berate You to feel safe, by
saying You're not able and that the Bible is fable, they label it as a faith brace for the wavering and
unstable, saying that Your words are trite bits of written fiction, that Your existence was mythical,
Lord, that makes me bitter, I admit it, they call it hypocritical literature but the hypocrite's the one
that stares back at them in the mirror, each day on city pavements they cast lots for Your raiment, as
though Your slow death on a tree was inadequate payment, amazing grace was eliminated from the equation,
now we're just a faceless nation slowly becoming a wasteland, though the walls of this world crumble
around me, I'll stay in the same place that You found me, and pray that You surround me
1Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the LORD revealed?
2For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.
3He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
4Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.
5But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.
6All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the LORD hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.
7He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth: he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.
8He was taken from prison and from judgment: and who shall declare his generation? for he was cut off out of the land of the living: for the transgression of my people was he stricken.
9And he made his grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death; because he had done no violence, neither was any deceit in his mouth.
10Yet it pleased the LORD to bruise him; he hath put him to grief: when thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin, he shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days, and the pleasure of the LORD shall prosper in his hand.
11He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for he shall bear their iniquities.
12Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death: and he was numbered with the transgressors; and he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.
Sorria Para Mim
Rei, Sacerdote e Profeta, levado a Golgotha, não é apenas a perda de um Salvador, mas a perda de um Pai,
por que você se importou em interceder por vagabundos como nós que zombaram de uma representação tão honesta e modesta do amor, eu
não paro, não me detenho e não me concentro nesses pensamentos com frequência suficiente, na cruz e no sangue, na perda
e nos cortes monstruosos, na coroa de espinhos que pesava sobre Sua testa, no desprezo e no luto
que se seguiram na manhã seguinte, multidões e enxames gritando Barabbas abafam a voz da razão, pessoas insignificantes tão perversas e malignas,
levando Você sangrando e implorando pela Via Dolorosa, Senhor, Você suportou vergonha
e reprovação e foi amaldiçoado pela maioria dos homens, ferido pelos amaldiçoados que Você nasceu para salvar,
da manjedoura ao túmulo, tudo o que fizemos foram erros, chutados na cara, atingidos, feridos e cuspidos, minhas
lágrimas caem sobre as Escrituras nas quais Seu futuro foi escrito, o chamado herege nu e tremendo,
joelhos dobrados cedendo por causa da árvore em forma de T, pregos quebrando a pele, Você estava levando nosso
pecado, colocando-o na palma de Suas mãos para todos os homens.
Você poderia ter dito 'Leve-me embora
Eu não quero ficar
Leve outro homem em outro dia
De outra forma'
O sangue se esvaía
A vida murchava
Ninguém mais disposto a pagar
Você poderia ter dito 'Deus, isso dói tanto
Esse fardo é tão pesado
Estou flertando com o toque da morte'
Mas Você veio, tocou vidas e morreu sozinho
E Você morreu sozinho só para sorrir para mim.
É a chuva que mancha meu rosto ou as lágrimas, estive aqui por 5 minutos ou 5 anos, não consigo
parecer mover meus pés, não consigo respirar, não consigo deixar essa árvore, não consigo acreditar que não sou eu, deveria
ter sido eu crucificado com pregos nos pulsos, frio como gelo e sem vida, sozinho e em silêncio, apenas
Mãe chorando, mas em vez disso, foi isso que Cristo fez, veio em forma humana e nasceu e foi desprezado pelo
povo à Sua imagem, apesar disso, Ele fez o errado se tornar certo, iluminou, para sempre o abençoado protetor da
minha vida, doador de visão, finalmente um pé se move, depois outro, depois outro, é melhor eu me proteger porque
o trovão está pairando, o sofrimento acabou, assim como a batalha agora, a cortina se rasga em dois,
Jesus, vou sentir sua falta, Jesus, vou sentir sua falta, eu merecia a cruz, mas Você sabia que tinha que ser assim, se eu
estivesse lá naquele dia, eu teria dito 'Leve-me embora!'
Dois mil anos depois, Você ainda é debatido e odiado, diminuído, e nu e isca para os mais falsos
opositores envergonhados de sua farsa diária, eles se mascaram em desordem e O menosprezam para se sentirem seguros, dizendo que Você não é capaz e que a Bíblia é uma fábula,
e eles a rotulam como uma muleta de fé para os vacilantes e instáveis, dizendo que Suas palavras são pedaços triviais de ficção escrita,
que Sua existência era mítica, Senhor, isso me deixa amargo, eu admito, chamam de literatura hipócrita, mas o hipócrita é aquele
que olha para eles de volta no espelho, a cada dia nas calçadas da cidade eles lançam sortes por Suas vestes, como
se Sua lenta morte em uma árvore fosse um pagamento inadequado, a graça incrível foi eliminada da equação,
agora somos apenas uma nação sem rosto lentamente nos tornando um deserto, embora as paredes deste mundo desmoronem
ao meu redor, eu ficarei no mesmo lugar que Você me encontrou, e rezo para que Você me envolva.
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