Blood-stained timber, slowly rotting.
My hopes are pinned there, and I cling and cannot let go.
My Saviour bids me move away,
But I’m not sure. In the cross
I have security, a sense of permanence.
Away from the cross are only his promises.
I can feel and see my precious cross.
It is more than a mere symbol.
The image of tortured death is my only reality.
Its shadow covers me,
and I have grown used To the pain of the splinters
And its oppressing weight.
It is my only comfort, even though
My Lord says he will carry it for me.
Others pass me by,
Whispering what good kindling it would make.
Their voices are demons hissing.
I shake the darkening doubts they stir up.
And cling ever tighter to the old rugged cross
Watching the Lord walk away, beyond the rise.
- Stephen R Clark
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