image borrowed from bing
“All God’s plans have the mark of the cross on them,
and His plans have death to self in them.”--E.M. Bounds
I, once was a great cedar tree standing
taller than my brethren on the hills outside
of Jerusalem. In 33 A.D., I was chopped down
by Jewish woodsmen, then carried to a Roman
miller, who fashioned me into a crux ansata,
my thick trunk made into a 12 meter center pole,
my biggest branch into a 2 meter cross beam
and a half meter foot rest, the suppedaneum.
We, of the thick pine forest were, of course, aware
of crucifixion, hearing whispers for countless centuries
how the Persians, Carthaginians, Macedonians, and now
the Romans used our wood to make corpus crosses.
I fell proudly, but had no inkling that my fate was to become
the True Cross, the center piece first at Calvary, then
the whole civilized world. I was presented to Christ,
all 285 pounds of me, by Pilate’s thugs, as Jesus
stood tall and scourged, wearing his crown of thorns
like a macabre king.
He had to drag me through the dirty streets of Jerusalem,
through ornate Roman gates, and my bulk drove Him
to His knees many times, but He always rose under
the whip and shouldered me and continued on His journey
outside the city, up the hill to Golgatha, where I was placed
on the ground and He was placed onto me, where three
6 inch metal spikes were nailed through his palms
and ankles, before we three crosses there, an unholy trinity
of murderous wood, were stood up into our post holes.
Even I was horrified by the actual death of Jesus.
I was literally bathed in the Savior’s blood, and
as it coated me in steaming crimson splendor
I could feel it sealing my life force for eternity,
mixing into my pitch and creosote to preserve
Jesus had tremendous strength, despite His wounds,
and He held himself up for several hours before
exhaustion following the darkness at noon
led to His eventual asphyxiation.
I love the legends that have sprung up about me
originally being part of the Tree of Life, sprung
from a holy seed carried in Adam’s mouth,
made into a bridge, later pulled apart, the lumber
reused to make crucifixes--all a fairy tale.
It was true, however, that Helena, mother of
the Emperor Constantine did discover
our decomposing trio 300 years after
we were hidden near Christ’s tomb.
Today, I am still here, reduced to remnants,
fragments of preserved wood, ensconced
in a glass case as centerpiece in the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre, erected
piously upon the bloody shoulders of Golgatha.
Do not be fooled by the thousands of faker
splinters throughout the world. Come to Jerusalem
where I await your perusal. I love to recount
my glorious story to all that can hear me.
Glenn A. Buttkus
Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA
Would you like to hear the author read this Easter poem to you?