Glory to His Name

There are moments when words fall short, when all the noise of the world fades and what remains is something sacred—something beyond understanding, beyond reason, beyond time. That’s what the cross is. It’s not just a symbol hanging on church walls or shining from steeples; it’s the heartbeat of love itself. It’s where heaven met earth, where mercy met justice, where God met us right in the middle of our brokenness. Every time I think about it, really think about it, I’m undone. Because there on that cross was everything I never deserved—and everything I’ll ever need.

Glory to His name. Those words aren’t just a lyric; they’re a surrender. They’re the whisper that escapes when language fails. They’re the quiet, trembling acknowledgment that the blood that ran down that rugged wood changed everything—my story, your story, the story of the entire world.

It’s easy to forget what that cross really means. We see it everywhere—on necklaces, in art, on bumper stickers—and sometimes it loses its weight. But if you stop long enough to really see it, not as a decoration but as an altar, it will change you. Because that cross wasn’t polished. It wasn’t clean. It was splintered, stained, brutal. It was the place where perfection was pierced for imperfection. The place where sin met its end and grace began.

I imagine that hill on that day—Golgotha, the Place of the Skull. The sky darkened, the earth trembled, and hope hung by nails. Those standing nearby probably thought it was the end. His followers were shattered, His mother’s heart was breaking, and even the soldiers didn’t know they were part of the most sacred moment in history. It must have looked like defeat, like finality. But heaven knew better. Heaven knew it was victory.

There on that cross, the blood of Christ didn’t just mark death—it marked deliverance. Every drop that fell was a declaration: You are loved. You are forgiven. You are mine. That’s what makes me fall to my knees every time I sing “Glory to His name.” Because the One who deserved glory chose humility. The One who spoke stars into existence chose to be nailed to wood He created. The One who had every right to condemn chose instead to redeem.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross. That line hits differently when you’ve walked through enough pain to understand the cost of love. Cherishing the cross isn’t about glorifying suffering; it’s about recognizing what that suffering accomplished. It’s about realizing that every ounce of pain He endured was willingly taken for you, for me, for all of us who would never be able to pay that price ourselves.

Sometimes, when life feels heavy—when I’m watching Tim struggle with his seizures, when fear whispers that the future is uncertain—I think about that cross. I think about how love hung there and refused to let go. I think about how, even in His final breath, Jesus was still saving others—still promising paradise to a thief, still forgiving those who crucified Him. That’s the kind of love I can’t comprehend, but I can rest in.

Because of that love, we don’t have to carry our sin, our shame, our failures anymore. Because of that love, even death doesn’t get the last word. The cross is proof that the worst thing is never the last thing. That even in the darkest hour, there’s resurrection on the horizon.

Till my trophies at last I lay down. There’s something so humbling about those words. We spend so much of our lives striving—chasing achievements, recognition, stability. We try to build lives that feel safe, lives that look successful. But in the end, all of it—every accolade, every possession, every plan—will fade. None of it will matter next to the glory of the One who gave everything for us. The only thing worth carrying into eternity is love.

I think of the things I’ve held onto so tightly—the need for control, the fear of loss, the worry about tomorrow. The cross gently reminds me to let go. To lay it all down. To stop clinging to the temporary and hold fast to the eternal. Because when it all comes to an end, it won’t be the trophies that matter. It will be the scars of love—the ones He bore for us, and the ones we carried for others.

I will cling to the old rugged cross. That’s what faith really is: clinging. Holding on when life doesn’t make sense, when prayers seem unanswered, when suffering lingers longer than we think we can bear. It’s choosing to trust that the same God who conquered death is still working redemption in our story, even when all we see is pain.

For me, clinging to the cross has looked like whispering prayers in hospital rooms. It’s looked like staying beside Tim during his seizures, feeling helpless yet knowing we’re not hopeless. It’s looked like crying out in the night and finding peace I can’t explain. Because the cross isn’t just something that happened two thousand years ago—it’s something that still happens in the heart of every believer every day. It’s where our pain meets His promise.

The cross is where despair meets deliverance. It’s where endings become beginnings. It’s where love does what logic never could—it saves. And when I think about how much was accomplished in that one moment—how sin lost its power, how death lost its sting—I can’t help but worship.

And exchange it someday… for a crown. Those words bring tears every time. Because one day, all the pain, all the tears, all the battles will end. One day, the weight of this life will fall away, and we’ll stand in glory, not because we earned it, but because grace carried us there. One day, all the clinging will turn into rejoicing. The faith that felt fragile will turn into sight.

We’ll see Him—the One who bore our pain, who wore our shame, who turned a cross into a crown. We’ll finally understand what our hearts could only glimpse here: that every moment of struggle was not wasted, every tear was remembered, and every act of love was eternal.

When I picture that moment—standing before Him, crown in hand—I know I won’t be able to hold it for long. I’ll lay it right back down, because there’s only One worthy of wearing it. The same One who traded His crown of glory for a crown of thorns. The same One who looked at humanity at its worst and still called us worthy of His best.

Glory to His name.

There’s something profoundly beautiful about those four words. They carry the weight of history, the fullness of grace, the echo of eternity. They remind us that no matter what this life brings—joy or sorrow, triumph or defeat—it all finds meaning in Him.

When I say Glory to His name, I’m not ignoring the pain. I’m acknowledging the power that stands above it. I’m recognizing that even in the brokenness of this world, He is still worthy of praise. Because the cross didn’t just save us from death; it gave us a reason to live.

And so, I’ll keep cherishing that old rugged cross. I’ll keep clinging to it through every unknown. I’ll keep trusting that one day, when all is said and done, I’ll exchange every tear, every burden, every fear for something eternal—peace, joy, and the presence of the One who made it all possible.

The world may look at the cross and see tragedy. I look at it and see triumph. They may see suffering; I see salvation. They may see defeat; I see the deepest love ever shown.

Glory to His name—for every sunrise that follows a sleepless night, for every breath when fear gives way to peace, for every soul redeemed, for every broken heart made whole. Glory to His name for the mercy that meets us in the mess, for the grace that lifts us from the dust, for the promise that no matter how dark the night, the light of love will always rise again.

One day, when all of this fades away—when pain is no more and faith becomes sight—I’ll see that cross not as a symbol of sorrow, but as the doorway to eternal joy. I’ll see the One who hung there, not in agony, but in glory. And I’ll finally understand that it was all worth it—all the waiting, all the clinging, all the tears.

Until then, I’ll keep walking, keep believing, keep whispering through it all: Glory to His name.

Because there on that cross—on that rugged, sacred cross—love wrote the ending of my story before it even began. And that ending will always, always be victory.