At the Foot of the Cross
What felt like a sacrifice wasn't really a sacrifice at all when you consider our Lord's mother's sacrifice of her only son.
I held my son in my arms,Pain gnawing at me to let him go. And as his bus pulled out into the darkness, I thought of you. Sorrowful mother. How your heart bled at the foot of the cross,Where hung your suffering son, Who had been scourged, and beaten Before being nailed to a cross he had carried. Crucified. Dying before your very eyes. They pierced his side, And pierced your sorrowful heartSo that it would bleed from that day on. You carried that cross too. You felt the pain with every strike as they whipped him before they hung him to a cross. Sending him to his death. You sacrificed your son for us. And I realised, Mine was not a sacrifice at all. For I wasn't losing mine. He would be home again on that same bus. With his laundry in tow.