That old rugged cross, that was made from a tree.
Was where our Lord died, for you and for me.
They did not know, the wrath it would bring.
Nailed to this cross was our Lord the king.

 
The cost of this cross, grew greater with time.
And that three days later, that cross would be mine.
I now carry the cross, two thousand years old.
But that old cross, is now made from gold.

By trusting in Jesus, and the words he does say.
A mansion will be ours, he will show us the way.
Streets pure as gold, but let it be understood.
They are made from a cross, that was once made of wood.

Our earthly treasures, that some try to hoard.
Won't get them in heaven, so saith our Lord.
They would give it all up, if they understood.
That our Lord got to heaven, by the way of the wood.

Now all that we are, and ever shall be.
Will never be ours, till we pick up our tree.
Tho it may be heavy, and it may be cold.
When you enter heaven, your crown will be gold.