I can almost hear the Hammer
As it rings against the nails;
That they pounded in my Saviour
There amidst a mother's wails.
Oh! The pain he must have suffered,
When they broke his sinless flesh.
How He loved me, my dear Saviour;
With His death, my soul He blessed.
How the sound must have resounded
To the Christians weeping there.
How I hate the ugly Hammer
That was wielded without care.
When I pondered for a moment...
And reflected on the man,
Who stood behind the Hammer
And held it in his hand.
He became the many nations ...
That had been and still would be.
He became the many nations,
And the Hammer became me.
By Carol Bouche' Ottlinger
copyright 1949
Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Oh yes! I was there and all before me and all that were with me and after me.
I was young when I wrote this.