Jesus, wronged

His hands were black as charcol,
His face was white as snow,
His feet were raw, and blood soaked,
A man with many a foe,

His brain had already left him,
His dignity was all gone,
The words had long since taken flight,
From a mouth that had never done wrong,

But if you saw him pinned tight,
On that cross of wooden ply,
Many would never forgive him,
Many would never try.