Here’s another neat little poem from the class book “The Lord’s Supper by Dick Blackford” that we’ve been using on Sunday mornings in the teenage class. The author is marked as unknown, but the words are worth hearing:
It was not a bolt of gold, But only a cross of wood,
Yet the bliss can never be told, When its meaning is understood.
It speaks of the mountains crossed, The crooked and rough made plain,
Of the climax of toil and cost That brings man to God again.