The Cross Poem by Martin Ward

A carpenter made The Cross
upon which The Carpenter died.
Dead wood that bore the living God.

Rough hewn or smoothly planed,
the smell of fresh cut timber
must have remained.

The aspen leaf trembles
in fear that it might be
the wood of crucifixion.

Or was it made of mistletoe?
Once a wood, now branded
a parasite.

Cypress, cedar, pine and box,
according to The Venerable Bede.
Should the seed be blessed or cursed?

Crafted for contempt or veneration.
One set of hands did the making;
another nailed to the material of His trade.

Created to be cut down:
just like Our Saviour, only He in perfection.
But The Cross remains an earthly thing.

Scenes Of Crime Officers
search for murder weapons on their knees,
just as we before The Cross.

Found or lost; it remains a mystery.
Sometimes I reflect upon the paradox:
weapon of cruelty, yet giver of life.

How can we revere
an object of hate and love
in incomprehensible measure?

Made by another,
to be made His own:
then given to us.