The Cross Of Christ

It makes a shadow on the grass,
That cross on which Christ died;
Oh, there my helpless soul has fled,
And there it will abide.

Though pomp and circumstance parade
And bannered horsemen ride,
They cannot lure me from the cross
Oh which my Savior died.

For all the wealth of all earth's kings
I would not turn aside;
I want no other riches save
That crimson cleansing tide.

No other hope I find, no joy,
No peace for me, aside
From that dear secret place of grace,
The cross on which Christ died!

-poem by Martha Snell Nicholson