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Some people think we worship,
An old rugged wooden cross.
They laugh at us and say it was,
The way they killed our boss.
It could have been a hangman’s noose,
A spear or sharpened sword.
It could have been a heavy rock,
They used to kill my Lord.
It could have been an arrow’s tip,
The blade of someone’s knife.
It could have been a pit of flames,
They used to take His life.
I know they do not understand,
To them it makes no sense.
It’s not the instrument of death,
It’s what it represents.
It could have been so many things,
To cause my Lord His loss,
But the thing that I remember most,
He gave it on a cross.
© 1998 James A. Kisner.
The Poems and Writings of James A. Kisner are copyrighted
and may not be reproduced without written permission from
Fleeting Moments Publishing. For online permission Email FleetingMP@aol.com.
This poem is used by permission of Fleeting Moments Publishing.
All copies of his poems MUST include these credits.
"Sunrise"
Art © by Thomas Kincaid
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