The Cross

by Roger Wakefield

 

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The cross was made
From an old rugged tree
On which Jesus died,
To set all men free.

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 His body was scourged
By brutal whips,
Vile words of mocking
Poured from their lips.
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They drove the nails
Through His hands and feet;
He gave them this right
For sin to defeat.
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They pierced His side
And His blood ran red
Placed a crown of thorns
Upon His head.

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No one could know
The power in His blood’
The love of this deed,
Covered the land like a flood.

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As they took Him down
And put Him in a cave,
Little did they know
He would rise from that grave.

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 He left that tomb
For a better place,
That we may someday
See His holy face.

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Our lives we need
To holy live
For so great a sacrifice
God did give

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 Let us never forget
How He set us free
Upon the cross that came
From an old rugged tree.

Roger C. Wakefield © 2004
azrog32@aol.com




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