Thanksgiving

Thank you for the cross, my Lord,
That caused you so much pain.
Thank you for the cross, my King,
That was solely for my gain.
No nails held you, my Jesus,
To that rough hewn wooden frame.
Your love bound you securely
To that instrument of shame.
You covered my transgressions
On that dark and sorrowful day.
The bruises and the blood you shed
Washed the debt of sin away.
You suffered so, for all mankind,
That we might walk in peace.
The stripes you bore
For our life and health,
They tore at your flesh so deep.
We were the joy 
Set before you, my King,
For us you endured the loss.
Thank you, praise you, bless you, Lord,
For the rough hewn, 
Blood stained cross.

Nelda Johnson       Copyright 2020

This poem was composed on the back of the motorcycle on a trip from Louisiana to Maine.  We passed a church in Tennessee with a very tall cross in front of it, near the highway.  My heart was struck by the pain I know the Lord endured.  I am a grateful sheep.