The Cross We Carry

It is no sculpted timber raised against the sky,  

No monument of stone that time will calcify;  

The cross of Christ is nearer,

a weight against the bone,  

A truth that settles in the flesh  

when we must walk alone.  

It rests upon the heart in nights of aching loss,  

When graves are freshly dug  

and love bears winter’s cost.  

In bereavement’s hollow silence,  

when tears refuse to cease,  

His cross becomes our company,  

His wounds our borrowed peace.  

It presses on the body when pain will not relent,  

When breath is thin with suffering  

and strength feels nearly spent.  

For He too bore the torment  

that tore through nerve and vein;  

We find Him in our weakness,  

a fellowship of pain.  

It shadows us in moments  

when loved ones turned away,  

When rejection’s bitter sentence  

is all they choose to say.  

For Christ was left deserted,  

betrayed by those He knew;  

The cross becomes our shelter  

when hatred’s arrows flew.  

So let the world keep symbols  

of polished, distant grace,

The Christian bears a cross  

that time cannot erase.  

Held close against the body,  

engraved in soul and scar,  

It binds our wounds to Jesus’ wounds,  

and makes His suffering ours.  

Mark Humber 4/2/26