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.
|