THE LIVING CROSS

I was dead, a fractured timber,
With a gnarled and rough hewn face;
Bereft of all the beauty
That, once, the eye could trace.

Just cracked and splintered lumber
(Cut and shaped to do a chore)
That would, someday, measuring evil !
With an arching, damning, score.

Those soldiers yanked me up and
Slammed me down, upon a man;
Bruising neck and shoulders,
Torn as only whippings can.

At once, I felt a surge of life
Dart thru my dried-out frame.
My contact, with this wounded
Man, make me alive, again.

I felt the sap, of vibrant life,
Renew my withered core
And surge of joyous, tingling, spark;
Just like the days of your.

I felt those hands that held me,
As He carried me along,
And reveled in the surge of joy
That filled my heart with song.

But, this joy was interrupted
When He dropped me to the ground.
'Twas a painful thump, then scraping,
As He dragged me all around.

I, now, began to grasp the nature
Of His halting stumbling stride;
To feel the awful pressure
Of His grief and strain inside.

I, soon, began to sense the pain
That overwhelmed His heart;
To realize that I was, soon,
To have a mirrored part.

The man, to whom they gave
The job to tote me half the way,
Did surely feel his burden
Was alive, that eerie day.

They threw Christ's battered body
Hard, upon my stretched out bands,
And drove those rust spikes
In me, thru my Creator's hands.

This trembling beam was overwhelmed
As, closely, He was pressed
To hear Him breath those muffled prayers,
Denied to all the rest.

This man whose love could give
New life to others starkly dead,
Whose very touch would turn their life
To power and praise instead...

Had shared, with me, the song
Of life that true forgiveness sings;
The quenching of the cruel curse
That disobedience brings.

Copyright by Rowland Mings