Poetry

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I saw the blood stained hands caress the wood
The fingers traced the path of knots and grain
He did not move, in quiet solace stood
And braced his tender heart to bear the pain

The path He walked was coming to its end
He would surrender to this ugly death
His battered limbs to wood and nails would bend
And watched by all He’d yield his final breath

Some other son, spoke to his father’s ear
“We have the wood, but have no lamb to give”
God has supplied and all has been made clear
This is the lamb that dies that we might live

The cross that He embraced must be my own
If I would stand as His before His throne

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