Of all the volumes that were ever written—this volume, printed in crimson upon the pure, lily-like flesh of Christ, is the best to read!
Oh! Think of the Savior descending from the starry heights of glory—and coming down into the Virgin's womb; and then descending from that lowly manger of Bethlehem—even to the cross and to the grave for you! Yes, for your sake He takes upon Himself the form of a servant and becomes obedient unto death, even the death of the bloody tree!
Many of the ancient saints were accustomed to spending hours in meditating upon the sacred wounds of Jesus upon the Calvary's Cross—and many of the martyrs have been for days engaged in solemn meditation upon those wounded hands and feet, and that pierced side.
Oh! Sit down at the foot of the Cross, and study the wounds of Jesus! Of all the volumes that were ever written—this volume, printed in crimson upon the pure, lily-like flesh of Christ, is the best to read!
If any of you doubt whether there is forgiveness with God—I ask you to stand on Calvary, in imagination, and to look into the wounds of Jesus. Gaze upon His nail-pierced hands and feet, His thorn-crowned brow, and look right into His heart where the soldier's spear was thrust!
Pardon of sin is only found in the wounds of Jesus! Your sins were atoned for upon the accursed Cross.
Abide close to the cross, and search the mystery of His wounds. We shall only hate sin, by living more where the groans of Calvary can meet our ears, and the sight of the Savior's wounds can melt our hearts! Keep a deep sense of your indebtedness to God alive in your soul—and you will feel that you can never do enough for Him who has forgiven you so much!
There is no solid joy, no hallowed peace this side of Heaven—except by living under the shadow of the Cross, and nestling in the wounds of Jesus!
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all!