It was on a lonely stretch
of country highway,
standing white against
a row of green, green trees,
And it caught my eye because
it had no purpose.
You see, the message once
displayed had gone astray.
It was a signpost,
a lovely, little signpost,
painted white and fresh
as the driven snow.
But that signpost no longer
held it's message,
nothing hanging from the
empty hooks below.
That little signpost made
me think about another,
Upon a darkened hill
so very far away.
It took the form of a cross,
and bore much suffering,
But the message still is
hanging there today.
There is a Signpost, a lovely,
precious Signpost,
painted crimson for the blood
that covers me.
And on that Signpost,
that lovely, precious Signpost,
hangs the Message of what
Jesus did for you and me,
His timeless gift of Grace at Calvary.
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