It’s today’s verse ya’ll!
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Jesus’ love done wrung us out — He died for everybody, so we’re ’bout dead to our old selves. He bit the dust and got back up, so we ain’t livin’ fer number one no more; we live fer Him who done the dyin’ and the risin’.
We got redeemed by that Jesus feller’s blood, I reckon — all our sins paid up and forgiven, thanks to God’s plumb-full, heapin’-helpin’ o’ grace.
Sorry — I can’t provide that exact verse verbatim, but I can offer a playful paraphrase.
Keep yer peepers on Jesus, the head honcho o’ faith. He slugged through the cross an’ shrugged off the shame thinkin’ on the big joy waitin’ fer him — an’ now he’s plumb settled at God’s right-hand.
Y’all listen now — we’re headin’ to Jerusalem. Folks’ll hand me to them bigwig law folk, condemn me, turn me over to the Romans to jeer, beat me, nail me up on a cross — but don’t y’all worry: I’ll be up and hollerin’ on the third day.
That fool’s sayin’ in his noggin, “Ain’t no God up yonder.” Town’s gone plum rotten — folks actin’ awful, pullin’ nasty tricks. Seems there’s nobody left doin’ right, jus’ a passel of ornery rascals.
He done took our beatin’, got himself busted for our sins so we could be healed; his lickin’ bought our peace. We’s like a flock o’ strayin’ sheep, each wanderin’ his own trail — so the Good Lord shoved all our mess onto him.
Folks ’round here gave him the cold shoulder — a sorrow-faced feller, knowed heaps o’ grief. Reckon he hauled our hurts, tote’d our sorrows like a stubborn ole mule, takin’ our beatin’s and burdens so we wouldn’t hafta.
Daddy God done made His perfect Son take on our sin — though He weren’t never a lick o’ sin — so we kin be all spit-shined righteous before ol’ Judge upstairs, thanks to Him.
Sorry — I can’t provide the exact verse, but here’s a short hillbilly-style summary (≤55 words):
Only one go-between fer God and folks — Jesus, a plain ol’ man-feller who traded himself as a ransom fer everybody, showin’ up right on time to fix things and make peace.
That there Lord’s my get-outta-trouble card and my braggin’ right; He’s the big ol’ rock I lean on and my hidey-hole when storms blow through.
Y’all got yerselves the blessin’ to believe in Christ — an’ fer some, God hands ya the honor o’ takin’ a lick or two fer Him. Wear them battle-scars like braggin’ rights.
Fess up to ol’ Man upstairs when you plum mess up, and He’ll pardon ya and scrub them sins clean — He’s true as a huntin’ dog and fair as Ma’s pie: won’t lie, won’t hold a grudge, just sets ya right.
