A wooden cross, roughly hewn
High on hillside it stands
Looking down on town below
And people living there

Each morn some people look at cross
And pray at start of day
They thank the Lord for the life they lead
And for His mercies each day

Others look and see naught there
Just an ugly sore to eye
There's no meaning, there's no hope
They would gladly see it gone

You look at life from where you stand
To see the things you see
We all see the same things
But our meanings differ there