Poetry

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Upon the hill, a timber raised,
a clothesline stretched across the sky,
where mercy hung in crimson threads,
and grace was spread to dry.

The nails, like pegs, held fast the cloth
of every stain our souls had worn;
bleached in the blaze of righteousness,
our rags became reborn.

A thief, with breath near spent, believed—
and paradise swung open wide;
his faith, a whisper on the wind,
was heard by Him who died.

So here we stand, where blood once flowed,
where sin was scrubbed, where hope was sown;
the Cross, our line of saving grace,
Golgotha’s washing stone.




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