THE CROSS

I Walked The Rocky Wooded Paths, And Climbed The Craggy Hill,
No Soul Or Sound Was Seen Or Heard,
And Everything Was Still.

There Were Three Crosses At One Time,
But Now Was Just The One,
This Cross Had Born The 'King Of Kings',
The Man They Call The Son.

I Stood Before The Massive Tree,
And Wondered At The Sight,
What Kind Of Carpentry Was This,
This Instrument Of Fright.

My Fingers Stroked The Roughened Wood, For Comfort Not 'Twas Made,
The Beams Were Square And Splintery,
From Blows Of Axe And Blade.

The Darkened Wood Was Stained More Still,
In Places Here And There,
'Twas Evident That Blood Had Flowed,
'Til There Was None To Spare.

I Stooped And Picked From Off The Ground,
A Rusty Iron Nail,
And Shuddered As I Thought About,
The Hand It Did Impale.

The Nail Was Pressed Against The Flesh,
And Through The Hand Was Driven,
And Wood And Metal Formed A Bond,
No Sympathy Was Given.

The Wooden Tree Then Held The Man,
Suspended Up On High,
The Hanging Weight Suppressing Air,
So Helping Him To Die.

'Tis True The Cross Was Carried First,
From Judgement Hall To Hill,
But That Small Deed Could Not Compare,
To How The Cross Could Kill.

And Then I Understood The Cross,
I Knew Right Then And There,
It Is An Instrument Of Death,
Not Just A Cross To Bear.

We're Not Just Called To Carry It,
That's Only Half The Plan,
We Have To Climb Up On The Cross,
And Kill Our Wordly Man.

~author unknown~