What was the price of the dogwood tree,
From which they made the cross?
I could not find a “bill of sale”,
Stating what that tree had cost.
The nails that were driven in His hands,
What did they pay for those?
And the spears that pierced His precious side
Was not free, I don’t suppose.
What about the crown of thorns He wore?
It was not, given free.
They pressed it down up His brow
and He bore it, for you and me.
I can’t imagine the price of a tomb,
That wasn't His to occupy,
But what a price he paid for us
As He, the Lamb, had to die.
If dollars and cents could pay for His love,
If money could set you free;
What would you give, just to hear Him say,
“Dear child, Come unto me?
Who was that poor old stranger
who rang my front door bell?
I stood inside, the latch in place
His face I could not tell.