This poem was inspired, in part, by the old English poem “The Dream of the Rood” (My favorite second to Footprints). I’ve basically done a synopsis of the poem in my own words. It is different, but similar to this ancient work. Please enjoy and feel free to constructively critique it.
I tried to stand erect but the burden was too much to bear.
I couldn’t do anything but bow under the weight of this body
staining me cherry.
I counted and carried the cost of mankind’s depravity.
Then the mocker’s made a mockery of me.
As years passed, I became an emblem for “refined” personage-
I was embossed in gold, having chains pierced through my heaven point, and gracing debutantes’ necks;
during the bunny’s season, I’ve been cloaked in purple satin or white cotton sheets.
These capes can not blind me from what I was,
cleavage’s cradle will not rock me to comfort.
I remember what I was intended for.
I was intended for shame. I was intended for humiliation. I was intended as a reminder for the rebel’s cause.
His flesh splattered my bearings. Blood tinted spit dribbled down his face and down my sides. His tears salted the rusting spikes, tarnishing them faster. I felt his trembled, shuttering voice plead forgiveness just before the spear pierced his lungs.
I watched as they heaved the corpse off my shoulders. I was light, but heavy.
Leaning towards the caves, I saw the tattered shards of bone being wrapped in linen and laid to rest. Three days I quaked upon that hill. I knew what I had done.
I’d been a confirmation of death; until, of course, that stone peeled away and there stood that beaten body.
He was, however, renewed. I could see the scars, I’d witnessed them as they wrung his life upon me. Yet this flesh had healed wounds and in it, he had turned this horror-stricken wood to a monument of glory.
When I see it from this vantage point, the cross’ perspective, I see Christ’s work. The cross is not an adornment to be flashed without any heed. I need to remember what it was used for. I then see that like that wood, he, through his death on the cross, has redeemed this sinner too.
Perhaps that’s why I get so sensitive when other’s try to add to that grace—be it a strict observant of the Law or one who has added Eastern mysticism to the mix.
For me, like the cross, Jesus is enough. The cost of that death, Christ’s work not mine, and resurrection’s victory is enough to convince me that all you need is Christ. We need to be bold for him. He chose what was due to us so we wouldn’t have to endure it. We need to fall unabashedly in love with that Savior and him alone. We need to find him as described in pages of wood turned sacred text. Christ is enough, nothing more and nothing less.