| The Living Cross by Rowland Mings |
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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, measure 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, made 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 yore. 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 rusty spikes In me, thru my Creator's hands. This trembling beam was overwhelmed As, closely, He was pressed To hear Him breathe 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. |
| © 2004 Rowland Mings |
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