The Cross

The Cross
by Karen Arthur

As I’m strolling all around the dusty roads in my home town,

The line of telephone poles resemble crosses in a row.

In the church just down the street where we gather every week,

We sing praise in Jesus’ name, and give thanks for why He came.


Evergreens that edge my drive, take me back to how He died.

Sometimes Golgotha feels so real, when I hike a steep, tall hill.

I can’t know the pain He felt when crushed beneath the cross He knelt,

But I can sense the heavy load He bore, to save my sinful soul.

Every shrub and thorny vine, blossom only to remind

Me of the crown, which tore each gash in His earthly, human flesh.

I spot at the hardware store; nails like shaped the scars He wore,

When they pierced the hands of God, and the feet on which He trod.

Every wound that makes me bleed, flows to refresh my memory

Of the blood that Jesus lost hanging on that crimson cross.

A metal fence surrounds a yard, like Roman soldiers standing guard,

Who shook a spear and bragged with pride, “I’m the one who gored His side.”

A window glass reflects my shame, and I know that I’m to blame,

For my weakness brought Him here, then my eyes fill up with tears.

It was all for me I know, just because He loves me so.

He suffered great atrocity, when He came to set me free.


But in death, He did not stay; He rose again on that third day,

He’s alive eternally, to light The Way for us to see.

It all reminds me of the cross, and the ones who still are lost,

When the Savior paid the price and became my sacrifice.