The Cross Was His Own

They borrowed a bed to lay his head,
When Christ the Lord was born;
They borrowed the ass in the mountain pass,
For him to ride to town;
But the thorns that he wore
And the cross that he bore, were his own.
True: the cross was his own.

He borrowed the bread when the crowds he fed,
On the grassy mountain side;
He borrowed the dish of broken fish,
With which they were satisfied;
But the thorns that he wore
And the cross that he bore, were his own.
True: the cross was his own.

He borrowed the ship in which to sit,
To teach the multitude;
He borrowed a nest in which to rest,
He had never a home so crude;
But the thorns that he wore
And the cross that he bore, were his own.
True: the cross was his own.

He borrowed a room on his way to the tomb
The Passover lamb to eat;
They borrowed a cave, for him a grave,
They borrowed a winding sheet;
Yet the thorns that he wore
And the cross that he bore, were his own.
It’s true: the cross was his own.