I know of a story too dear to hear,
It comes in the form of a Cross,
It's a tale that's lasted two thousand years,
It can not be hidden or lost.
The sight of the Cross, all on its own,
Requires no words to make clear,
Its image is old and very well known,
Yet, each time it is seen, it brings tears.
It's a picture of shame, of grief, and of pain,
A tale of the Blood of the Lamb,
There's no need for words; its vision explains
Quite plainly God's plan for man.
The Cross speaks volumes without making a sound,
We need only to see where it's pierced,
And look on the ground for a dropped thorny crown,
To know of suff'ring and anguish most fierce.
I cringe from the sound of silent screams heard,
Some of them coming from me,
For the sight of that Cross without any words,
Is almost too much to perceive.