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I know of a story too dear to hear,
It
comes in the form of a Cross,
It's a tale that's
lasted
two thousand years,
It cannot be hidden or
lost.
The sight of the Cross, all on its
own,
Requires no words to make clear,
Its image is
old and very well known,
Yet, each time it is seen,
it brings tears.
It's a picture of shame, of
grief,
and of pain,
A tale of the Blood of the
Lamb,
There's no need for words;
its vision
explains
Quite plainly God's plan for man.
The Cross speaks volumes without making a
sound,
We need only to see where it's pierced,
And
look on the ground for a
dropped thorny crown,
To
know of suffering and
anguish most fierce.
I
cringe from the sound of silent
screams heard,
Some
of them coming from me,
For that sight of the Cross
without any words,
Is almost too deafening to see.
by Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
copyright 1999
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