Golgotha’s cross,
so mute you stand o’er us,
bold of blood.
Must we cower before you in
our grief,
cast down to the lowliest mud
on the dark side of belief?
Innocence meets in you its
solemn end.
Evil is hence no mere
mummer’s mask –
untimely wounds, scars that
won’t mend,
jailer to take the soul to
task!
Alas, for the tree as well
we mourn!
As a knife is smelted from
ore,
so you were born of its
riven bark.
We grieve that it drinks
sunlight no more,
now a cipher for death and
the dark.
Conquer and divide! your grisly intent –
to cast aside the feet from
the head,
the body’s and soul’s
dismemberment,
even the living from the
dead!
And that tree that had to
die,
stripped naked to give you
still birth,
uttered not a solitary cry.
Did it know what its life
was worth?
Averse to your stunted
embrace,
Quiescent, unconsumed,
there seethes
a vestige of bounteous
grace,
a breath the seeking soul
yet breathes.
The world does well not to
ignore
the suffering of the
Christ,
for out of sacrifice so
sore
has faith been purchased
and priced.
But let some at least have
a care
– for the tree!
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com
I welcome feedback. Direct it to bobracine@verizon.net
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