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Christ Came Down, Arising

I WILL CLING to the old rugged cross,
Bloodstained timber, slowly rotting,

My hopes are pinned there, and

I cling and cannot let go.

My Savior 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 the precious cross.

It's more than a mere symbol.

This image of tortured death is my only reality.

Its shadow covers me, and I've grown used

To the pain of the splinters,

And its oppressive weight.

It is my only comfort, even though

My Lord says He will carry it for me.

And 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 my old rugged cross,

Watching the Lord walk away, beyond the rise.