When I came to the words "Behold the man upon a cross/ My sin upon his shoulders/" I imagined contritely and gratefully loading my sins there. I didn't know the song. I didn't know the next lines would destroy me.
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice, Call out among the scoffersNo, I would not have been worshipful and repectful had I been there, would I? I would most likely have been like the others. I imagined hearing my own voice in the crowd. I knew it was true, and I was ashamed.
There was a book of historical fiction, or perhaps a murder mystery that my wife told me about years ago. An artist had painted the crowd at the crucifixion, and by some trick or miracle, everyone who saw the painting saw their own face there. (If you know it, please identify it for us.) The people resented the artist, and she thinks she remembers, killed him. The detective called in to solve the mystery sees his own face in the painting as well.