Oh Jesus, take me to the cross
and point me to the wood
Your Father's will commanded should
be built to bear the weight
of all my sin--but in my place:
a sacrificial Lamb.

Oh Jesus, take me to the cross
and point me to the nails
that men had shaped and put on sale
for one night's decent meal
unknowing that their scrap of steel
would pierce Your hands and feet.

Oh Jesus, take me to the cross
and point me to the sign
above Your thorn-crown to define
the reason that You died;
but Pilate's accusation lied:
my name should have been there.

Oh Jesus, take me to the cross
and point me to the blood
that's pooling in Golgatha mud
but cleansing every stain.
It was my sin that caused this pain
but You were killed instead.

Oh Jesus, take me to the cross
and point me to the One
who breathed a sigh and said, "It's done!"
enduring to the last
and demonstrating unsurpassed
the glory of such love.

Oh Jesus, take me to the cross!
What mercy! Oh, what grace!
The Father turned away His face--
a momentary shun
so one day I could see the Son
in heaven's timeless bliss.