Upon A Cross-Tree
© 1973 W. C. Highsmith

The Chosen One was born unto a virgin
In the small town of old Bethlehem.
He lived a pure life, though oft times lonely.
His kingdom was not an earthly realm.

While living in this world of many troubles,
My Lord healed the sick, the lame, the blind.
At times though scorned by pious leaders;
No evil, in Him, could any find.

The Holy One hung there upon a cross-tree.
His blood spilled down to a thirsty ground.
The nail-scarred hands were those of my Savior.
I should have died on that awful mound.


The Son of God came down from Glory;
He shed His blood for even me.
Of all the world, the least deserving;
He paid the cost on Calvary's Tree.

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