Simply to thy cross I cling

The old cemetery, a forgotten sanctuary where time itself seemed to pause. A man, nameless and burdened, wandered its well-worn paths. The early evening air held a hint of warmth, and the full moon cast its silver glow upon the Celtic cross that stood sentinel over the graves. The cross was unlike any other, a colossal stone monolith, its arms stretching wide as if embracing both heaven and earth. Its intricate carvings told stories of faith and sacrifice, and the man wondered about the hands that had shaped it centuries ago. As he walked, the man felt the weight of his own existence. His past, a tapestry of joys and sorrows, clung to him like ivy. He yearned for solace, for answers whispered on the wind. Beneath the moon’s watchful eye, he heard it. A faint voice, carried by the breeze. It seemed to emanate from the cross itself, a plea woven into the ancient stone. The words etched there revealed themselves: “Simply to Thy cross I cling.”

The man’s heart quickened. What did it mean? Was it a plea for salvation, a desperate cry from someone long gone? Or perhaps a promise, a tether to hope in a world that often felt untethered? He stepped closer, tracing the letters with trembling fingers. The stone yielded nothing but coolness, yet the voice persisted. It whispered of redemption, of surrendering all that weighed him down. The man closed his eyes, allowing the words to seep into his soul. And then, from the nearby forest, came the crows. A murder of them, their midnight-black wings slicing through the air. They perched on gnarled branches, their eyes sharp and knowing. The man sensed they were more than mere birds; they were guardians of secrets, messengers from realms beyond.

The crows tilted their heads, as if urging him forward. Their collective caw carried a message, cryptic yet urgent. What did they want? What did they know? Driven by curiosity and a hunger for meaning, the man stepped beneath the cross’s shadow. The moonlight bathed him, and he felt the weight of centuries pressing upon him. The crows watched, their eyes unblinking. “Simply to Thy cross I cling,” he whispered, his voice joining the ancient refrain. He surrendered his burdens, the nameless ache, the unspoken regrets to the stone. For a moment, he felt suspended between worlds, a fragile bridge of faith. And then, as if in response, the crows lifted their wings. Their feathers rustled, creating a symphony of whispers. The man strained to hear, and the words emerged: “Release. Surrender. Find solace.”

Tears blurred his vision. The cross absorbed his pain, and the crows carried it away. He understood now. Their midnight wings bore the weight of countless souls, guiding them toward peace. He sank to his knees, the ancient stone supporting him. The crows circled, their voices merging with the wind. The man clung to the cross, not as a desperate plea, but as an act of trust. In that moon-kissed cemetery, he found what he sought, an embrace beyond time, a whisper of grace. The crows soared, and the man wept, knowing he was not alone. And so, under the full moon’s gaze, he clung to the cross, simply and wholly. For in surrender, he discovered freedom. A path to eternity where stars and crows alike whispered of love and redemption.