Who's believed us? To whom is the Lord's arm revealed?
He'll grow up a root in dry ground, beauty concealed.
Despised, rejected, shunned by us, with grief stricken,
He bore our sorrows, yet we judged Him God-smitten.
But He was wounded, bruised, for us; His stripes healing.
We've all, like sheep, strayed, but God's laid our sin on Him.
Oppressed, a lamb to the slaughter, He yet kept mum,
Afflicted, cut off for my people's transgression.
He made His grave with the wicked since He'd no sin,
Yet this pleased the Lord; you made His soul an off'ring.
He'll be great, His soul's travail shall satisfy Him,
For He bore the sin of many, interceding.