His Cross, My Quiet

His Cross, My Quiet

He climbed the hill beneath the bruised sky,

each step an echo of love.

The crowd watched, torn between hate and awe,

as the nails wrote their cruel story.

The world trembled at His breaking,

the air grew heavy with grace.

Blood fell like new rain on the earth,

and the silence that followed was holy.

I think of Him when my voice falters,

when my faith feels small and frayed.

For even in the shadow of His pain,

He looked toward mercy and said, forgive.

His cross became my quiet,

my heart, a borrowed flame.

And I still see His eyes in every dawn,

where sorrow meets its healing.

He rose, and the world exhaled again,

the grave could not hold the light.

Love conquered the dark that claimed it,

and morning restored the night.

Now when I fall to my knees in silence,

I feel the ground grow warm beneath.

His name still breathes through my being,

and I know what it means to believe.