A Poem

Land of the Christless Cross

There's a land far south where the heavens rest

On the peaks of eternal snow

And the plaintive call of the reed-flute falls

From pastures to fields below.

Where the Indian huts on the cold plateau

Nestle low and are lost to sight

As the travelers scale by a zigzag trail

The face of the barren height.

'Tis a wayside cross by a rock-strewn path

At the top of the world you'll find,

And o'er hill or dale by the winding trail

There are crosses in stone enshrined.

Then on red-tiled roof over thick mud walls

Stand crosses where souls yearn for God,

And row upon row where the wind sobs low

O'er the loved ones beneath the sod.

And the crossbeams point to the sin-sick souls

With the emblem and form, but lost,

Sunken low in shame, though they bear His name

In the land of the Christless cross.

So I'm going back to the cross-crowned hills,

To the ruts through the desert sand,

To the rough old streets where a hot sun beats

On a parched and thirsty land;

To where Hunger stalks through the dismal streets

When the bleak wintry rain-mists blow,

And the days are drear because Death lurks near

With his anguish and wordless woe;

Where the false and true are so oft confused

And the gold is so mixed with dross,

There to take my stand in that sin-cursed land

And to give them the Christ of the cross.

There to tell how He conquered the powers of hell

And will lovingly banish their care,

For the cross can't save, but the One who gave

His own life as a ransom there.

And if we should fall on the battlefield

While fighting for truths sublime,

Brother, heed the cry of the souls who die,

And go forth while there yet is time.

Strive to fill the gap, lift the standard high,

Counting all earthly gain as loss

That the world may view Jesus Christ in you--

The all-glorious Christ of the cross.

Written by Louise Jeter Walker who served as a missionary in Peru