The diadem of pain which sliced your gentle face,

three spikes piercing flesh and wood

to hold you in your place.

The need for blood I understand.

Your sacrifice I embrace.

But the bitter sponge, the cutting spear,

The spit upon your face?

Did it have to be a cross?

Did not a kinder death exist

that six hours hanging between life and death,

all spurred by a betrayers kiss?

“Oh Father,” you pose,

heart-stilled for what could be,

“I’m sorry to ask, but I long to know,

did you do this for me?”

Author unknown.

Dare we pray such a prayer? Dare we think such thoughts? Could it be that the hill of the cross is rich with Gods gifts? Let’s examine them, shall we? Let’s unwrap these gifts of grace one at a time. And as you touch them, as you feel the timber of the cross and trace the braid of the crown and finger the point of the spike, pause and listen. Perchance you will hear him whisper,

“I did it just for you.”