Friday, March 29, 2013

on good friday

I was in Jerusalem once at The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It seemed like a tourist trap. Lines of people with cameras. And to the side of the main church was a room where they say the cross of Jesus once stood. The place Jesus died. There were no chairs in this room. People passed through it like it was a hall way. And I stood there and cried. When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride. Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, Save in the death of Christ my God! All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His blood. See from His head, His hands, His feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down! Did e’er such love and sorrow meet, Or thorns compose so rich a crown? His dying crimson, like a robe, Spreads o’er His body on the tree; Then I am dead to all the globe, And all the globe is dead to me. Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a present far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.

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