Except a grain of
wheat …
This is a strange, strange road to glory.
Not here a trumpet, nor the sweet applause
Of angels rank on rank in dear acclaim,
Nor victor’s sword, nor crowds that seethe and roar
For joy, nor here the high and golden throne.
Here is the bitter moment closing in.
Here is the crowd that does not understand,
The futile crowd that scorns a path so dark,
And will choose bread and circuses instead.
Here is the forerunner walking the way
Called cruciform. Here is the life laid down.
Planting must come before the harvest rich
And here the seed is sown into death.
And He who would to depths of darkness go,
Down to the uttermost of death’s despair
Tastes here, before that day, the agony,
And bids us all walk forward by His light.
He tastes before Him, in His shuddering flesh,
The nails, the whip, the tortured crown of thorns,
And chooses still, and chooses us as His
And chooses thus to draw us into life.
This is a strange, strange path to glory.
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