In Gethsemane’s garden of woe,
every drooping tree and flower,
every blade of grass and pebble,
And even the traitor called Judas,
including the lurking demonic legions,
smelled of the residue of sweet perfume;
‘Christ smelled like a king’

In Pontius Pilates’ judgement hall,
as the gawking multitude roared
and spewed their deadly venom,
calling for His innocent blood,
Pilate sensed the purest scent;
‘Christ smelled like a king.’

Upon Golgotha’s rugged stony hill,
as thieves hung in torment suspended,
dying for lowly crimes of commission,
As Palestine’s sun burned into their flesh,
In agonising moments of an eking life,
They beheld the crucified Son of God;
‘Christ smelled like a king’

The entranceway of Joseph’s tomb,
The carved wall crafted by many hands,
The grave clothes used to cover Him,
The trembling soldiers guarding all,
‘Satan holds the keys of death,’ they said;
‘Christ smelled like a king’

Affirmed by all who saw Him there,
Dying thieves hanging alongside,
A betrayer who’d kissed Him lightly,
Pilate who the death verdict gave,
The crowds who thronged Calvary.
Oh, trembling soldiers, demons, devil;
‘Christ smelled like a king.’