John Darnell

John Darnell Poems

The Best Poem Of John Darnell

That Cross

That Cross

O
I peered through a bright storefront window
At a thousand fine crosses of gold,
Thinking of gifts and of romance,
And the beauty of symbols of old.

When a Man was suddenly standing
So close, my heart skipped a beat.
I saw and I tried not to notice
His hands, His robe and His feet.

O
His robe wasn’t all that peculiar.
Tied round with a rope, and bright white.
His coal-black hair was long and coarse.
He wasn’t that much of a sight.

But a man and a robe on a storefront?
A man and a robe with those feet?
And holes in His hands big as nail prints?
And those eyes that I trembled to meet?

O
I said, my voice quite unsteady,
“My sweetheart, I’m thinking of giving,
“A cross to remind her of Kindness,
“And a cross to remind her of Living.”

He looked, His eyes were so kindly,
He saw me, that Man from above,
And He said in a voice soft and gentle,
“That cross is no symbol of love.”

O
I was startled; I reeled, so startled
From His strange, frank statement of Truth.
“That cross is a symbol of hope, ”
I said. “I’ve been told so since I was a youth.”

He smiled and shook His head gently,
And replied, “That’s not what I mean.”
“I spent what it took on that rugged old cross”
“To wash humanity clean.”

“But listen,
“That cross was a hideous torment,
“That cross was no gift from above,
“That cross was not that important,
“But The Work that was done on it,
“Was.”

I blinked, blinked twice and then said it,
“Then perhaps I should buy her a hat? ”
He smiled at me oh so kindly,
And replied, “I didn’t say that.”

“You see,
“That cross was a terrible torture,
“That cross was no act of love,
“That cross was not that important,
“But The Work that was done on it,
“Was.”

“But Lord, ” I said, my voice warbled,
“It says that, willing, You went,
“To Your doom on that construct of horror
“For us—that’s why You were sent.”

'O
“All true, ” He said, speaking gravely,
“All true, ” He said with a pause.
“That cross was no tool of salvation,
“Though The Work that was done on it,
“Was.”

I turned in my thinking a moment,
And I pondered how my God could try,
To hang on a tree for us sinners,
For Love, to hang and then die.

But
When I turned back, He’d departed,
Replaced by a grinning store man,
“Do you like what you see? ” he queried,
“I’ll sell what you want, if I can.”
 

I thanked him politely and pointed
To a gold ring bearing a dove,
Flying high in glory, triumphant
Through a sky filled with blue-shining Love.

“O
“That one, ” I said without doubting,
“If you have it in women’s size seven.”
“I’ll take it, and wrap it up, please.
“She’ll see it and think of God’s heaven.”

But, puzzled, quite strangely he asked me,
“Why not this little gold cross?
“I admit it’s much more expensive,
“But she’ll love it—it’s well worth the cost.”

“O
“That’s what boys give their girlfriends,
“To their sweethearts, have you not heard? ”
“So why not buy something like it, ”
“Instead of this strange-flying bird? ”

O
I said with a strength that surprised me,
“That cross is no symbol of love,
“That cross was a weapon of hatred,
“That cross was no gift from above.”

“That cross, where God died so slowly,
“That cross, of which culture’s abuzz,
“That cross was not that important,
“But the work that was done on it
“Was.”

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