I
know
of
a
story
too
dear
to
hear,
It
comes
in
the
form
of
a
Cross,
It's
a
tale
that's
lasted
two
thousand
years,
It
can
not
be
hidden
or
lost.
The
sight
of
the
Cross,
all
on
its
own,
Requires
no
words
to
make
clear,
Its
image
is
old
and
very
well
known,
Yet,
each
time
it
is
seen,
it
brings
tears.
It's
a
picture
of
shame,
of
grief,
and
of
pain,
A
tale
of
the
Blood
of
the
Lamb,
There's
no
need
for
words;
its
vision
explains
Quite
plainly
God's
plan
for
man.
The
Cross
speaks
volumes
without
making
a
sound,
We
need
only
to
see
where
it's
pierced,
And
look
on
the
ground
for
a
dropped
thorny
crown,
To
know
of
suff
'ring
and
anguish
most
fierce.
I
cringe
from
the
sound
of
silent
screams
heard,
Some
of
them
coming
from
me,
For
that
sight
of
the
Cross
without
any
words,
Is
almost
too
deafening
to
see.
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