God blew breath into the nostrils of man
And one day his seed would use it to fan
Into flames a smoldering coal
Which would spring to life, glowing, pale
And soften the iron whose awful role
It would be to become His nail.
A robe was woven, of deepest dye
On market table, who could guess its destiny?
Swathed around shoulders in beautiful drape?
Hung from stately windows to give needed shade?
No. Thrown upon One who chose no escape
It was willingly worn, for this moment made.
A thorn protrudes. At skin and vestment tears
It was not always thus, these angry spears.
Rebelling with man’s rebellion, the ground
Bears wicked hardness, clutching, grasping
At His hair, His skin, this crown
To adorn the King of life, hanging, gasping.
A tree sprang up through seasoned years
Watered with Heaven’s own perfect tears
Standing stalwart through drought and storm
Reaching its arms to its Maker.
Down it was hewn into boards forlorn
So that Sorrow could hang upon them, aching.
God grew a sponge on the deep sea floor
Out of view, quiet and obscure,
Which would one day be plucked up,
Dried in the rays of His created sun
and soaked with gall as a fashioned cup
To offer to the suffering One.
There is a cave, cool and dark
A welcome respite, but stony, stark…
Yet no one seeks a shelter here.
The one brief Resident has left
He is Victor over death and fear
The grave clothes lie bereft!