| The Cross Maker |
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Perhaps he was a craftsman, Good at his trade; Worker of wood, maybe - Lost count of all things he had made. Then, one day, a cross was ordered. It must not be beautiful. It was to be unpolished and rough. To his job, he was dutiful. As I thought about the worker Of wood, much like Jesus, He, too, was a carpenter. the very wood He created was, now, worked for us. How very alike, I think they were; Men of skill and honed art. But, the use of what they created Were worlds and love apart. I wonder how he must have felt When he created the cross where Jesus died; To have created, with his own hands, A cross for the crucified. I didn't make the cross. But, my sins mingled with the wood As precious, holy, blood stained it; To do what only Jesus could. I didn't form the shape of it. But, the cross beans of wide expanse And the length from head to foot was Necessary to redeem my circumstance. I was lost and so undone; A soul, in sin, for hell was bound. I needed a saviour, a sacrifice. In Christ, a spotless lamb was found. His cross I created with my sin; The sacrifice demanded just for me. Though, I didn't carve its length and breath, It was passed (from age to age) for all to see. I never heard it said Who actually nailed and worked the wood. All I really know ~ it held such love To give a sacrifice, as only Jesus could. I have never heard where His cross was, afterwards, taken, But, what I know, to this day; because of it, The whole world is now shaken. The enemies, of the cross, Claim it has no basis, is reality. It separated religions and their people. But, the Occupant of it has set me free. Had the maker of His cross Known the love that it would hold, Would he have made it smooth and beautiful, Inlaid with silver and richest gold? Would he have worked it with tender hands And prayed while he worked away? Or, would his heart beat, in agony, For what he had to do that day? As the ages of time have past, The cross maker has no known name. But, it is kept in the books of God, Himself, And, because of that cross (and the one it held), My life will never be the same. |
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