Cradle – Cross – Crown
Our infinite, immortal God
Planted His seed in a maid’s womb—
Like sprouts that grew from Arron’s rod,
Her fruit would birth and one day bloom:
He spoke with words that stunned, perplexed—
Healed sick, raised dead, foretold His tomb.
As prophesied in ancient text:
He rose! Eternal Life resumed.
Peter C. Venable 