THREE RUSTY NAILS
This is a story of long ago,
Of a man who owned little store.
He said, "I was proud to have my name up over the door."
It was some 2000 years ago, as I recall,
Located in Jerusalem, across the street from Pilate's Hall,
I thought I had everything anyone would need,
And folks would come from miles around, regardless of their creed.
I thought I had but one thing that I could not sell,
And that was, over in a corner on a shelf, three old, rusty spike nails.
Then one day a big Roman soldier came through the door,
And as he walked up to me, it seemed that he shook the floor.
I said, "Can I help you, Sir?," in a voice that I guess seemed frail,
He looked at me with a sneering grin and said, "I want to buy some nails."
"Three old rusty nails is all I have." "That' ll do,
For the job I have, three are enough. Now, how much do I owe you.?"
He place the money in my hand and I was glad to make the sale.
But then I wondered and I asked him, "Sir, what can you do with
just three nails?"
"Did you ever hear of a man called Jesus of Nazareth?"
"You mean the one that goes about only doing good?"
"That's him. Today I intend to show the world who's boss,
For with these three nails, I'll nail Jesus to the cross!"
I stood there numb; you'll never know just how I felt.
I said, "Please, Please, Sir, don't do that," as on my knees I fell.
He just turned and walked away. I got up and followed him.
A said, "Please, won't you let me buy them back?"
He turned away with a grin. And soon in the distance I could see the howling mob,
Trough tears that filled my eyes.
"Away with him," "Crucify him," I could hear their angry cries.
And over all that noise, in groans of agony,
I could hear the sound of that old hammer, in the hand of that big Roman soldier,
And he nailed my Jesus to the tree.
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