The Cross

My Savior bore His wooden cross, Up Calvary’s dismal hill. Without a word, without complaint, Quietly accepting the Father’s will. The crushing weight, the cuts and bruises, Abused, rejected, condemned to die. Bleeding from his crown of thorns, His hurt beyond my mortal mind. Each step He took was filled with pain, Each breath a ragged gasp. His hurt and sorrow mounting, Each moment, till the last. Soldiers screaming, women weeping, Crowds gathering in His blood-stained wake. Not...