The Door of the Cross
Upon thecross they hung Him from,
They'd fixed Him there, to there succumb;
They pounded nails to hold Him fast.
In a way, they're nails to a door e'erlast.
There He hung, His hands unfree,
The horizontal limbs, like lintel o'er,
Imagine how they suspended Him,
And imagine the standing timber, now cleft,
To make doorposts, both right and left.
To make a door of holy Grace,
An entryway to holy place!
See the Victim passing through the portal,
It harkens back to Testament Old
The angel of death would pass them by
And for their children, would Egypt mourn.
The Blood on the lintel of the Cross of Christ,
Was spilt when He was sacrificed!
His Blood's a sign upon His Cross...
To pass over a sad eternal loss!
Copyright © 2005 - John Riedell - All