At The Foot of the Cross
My Son is dead now
His suffering is past
And from that cruel cross
They bring him at last.
I hold His still hands
Now pierced and so torn,
His fair face is ghastly
From lashes and thorn.
His pure eyes so lovely
Are closed now in peace,
What moments they echo
What memories release.
So far, far in yesterday
Still I can see
The tiny sweet baby
Asleep on my knee.
My heart now is breaking
As I do recall
The price He has paid
To ransom us all.
So beaten and ragged
So lifeless and cold,
His love everlasting
His mercy untold.
Kate Watkins Furman
