It is ugly! Ugly! All of them, blackened by their sin!
Struggling, suffering, dying
A man walks on, blind, evil, selfish, seeking his own will!
Mannkind reaching upward, upward!
And Love,
With its pure golden flame coming on silent wings,
Coming through the thunder of time’s passing army,
a thousand voices and more!
Man knows he is not worthy
But he is trying, he is growing!
He is listening, reaching upward!
The dove decends,
The Record, the Word of the Lord,
Wrought out on the anvil of man’s suffering,
and a Presence!
a bush aflame!
a mountain’s awesome stones!
But man’s reaching is nothing
Till a Son is born, a Saviour! a Lord!
Till a life is lived, a story told!
Man’s grasping is that only,
Till a cross is thrown against the sky
And a stone rolled away!
Then man’s wild struggle
his agony and pain
his suffering and fear
his sin and darkness
these things can fall away
and a man can smile
as in penitence he comes, in prayer!
The ugly cross has changed the sky to noon
The bleeding brow has brought the dawn.
A mighty love has come in fresh new light
And a thousand hands reach up and touch a cross.
A touch that snaps like steel
As men are drawn to all they would adore.
The mystery is theirs!
The Son, the Son!
(Jan. 27, 1965)