Whistling through the wind, they came
Landing squarely on His bare back
Ripping, tearing out chunks of His flesh
A cat-o-nine tails was on the attack
With each brutal stroke, His blood flew
As the man grimaced, endured the pain
Each stroke was worse than the one before
His composure He tried to retain
The whip was covered with His blood
As was the one inflicting the blows
the man was becoming unrecognizable
As from His body, the crimson flowed
The savagery made the onlookers sick
They hid their faces, they were ashamed
An innocent man was accused, convicted
Of blasphemy, he had been falsely blamed
Whistling through the wind they came
Each one enhancing the pain even more
How He withstood it, only he knew
His fate? He knew what was in store
To the cross, He was forced to go
To die there while hanging on a tree
A broken body so horribly crucified
His blood flowing for you and me
When you hear whistling in the wind
Stop and think about what it means
Then remembered what our Savior endured
And how His blood washes us clean