I thank God for the cross. This instrument of torture is one of the greatest comforts to me. Every day I consider Christ’s crucifixion. In the wilderness, Israel looked up to the bronze serpent; here too, as I turn my mind to the cross, I find healing for the poison in my soul. One day too, like Jesus, I must die. Until then, I carry the cross.
How great my God that he might condescend to death, and so I know the psalmist true, “ā¦if I make my bed in Hell, behold you are there.”
What hope is there beside the cross?
Tale Told 