To the Cross

My bones are wearied from the desires of my flesh, 

The great battle never ceases 

and my blood ever flows upon Calvary’s hill. 

I stay upon my knees, 

I know not why. 

Do I crumble in the face of shame and lies, 

Or am I lowly in the weight of His glory? 

I pray it is the latter. 

My heart grows faint, 

Day after day

I wish among the bees and swallows

That I might become love. 

My spirit grows weary, 

Night after night 

I pray among the midnight stars 

That wisdom would mend tarnished hopes. 

Yet the ugly inside of me

screams and rages and dies hard. 

Sin always dies hard.  

So, 

When I wake up, 

I make my way to the cross.

I climb upon a T-shaped mountain, 

And let the nails of grace and truth

drive my hands into cursed wood,

And I die. 

My lust,

it dies. 

My hatred, 

it dies. 

My pride,

it dies. 

My dreams. My hopes. They die. 

I die. 

I die so that I May live. 

So that Love,

it lives. 

Joy, 

it lives. 

Peace,

it lives. 

His dreams. His hopes. They live. 

Yet it is not my blood that declares this tale of life, 

it is Another. 

Another’s blood cries out from the valley. 

Another’s blood cries out from the summit. 

Another’s blood cries victory. 

Another’s blood cries “it is finished.” 

Because of Another’s, it is so. 

Because of Another’s, I live. 

His name is Jesus.