Oh tender Tree, the precious Wooden Cross

Upon whose slender, rough-hewn boards bore up

Lovely Weight, sweet and pleasurable loss.

With breathless delight, I drink this raw cup –

Embrace Mortal Divinity in awe.

Stretched out across my knotted, gnarled skin,

His hallowed Body becomes passion’s shrine.

O Necessary Sin. O Happy Flaw.

Love’s heat burns when pressed against frigid sin;

Yet, He allows His Arms to cling to mine.


One moment, there is stillness and sweet peace

Until cracking fibers, hammer’s splinter stings,

Causing a blinding flash of searing heat.

My timbers tremble beneath His quaking limbs,

Enduring endless wood-creaking, moaning.

Sweet Agony! Oh Divine Mercy, pure:

How can Love perish in such a fashion?

Ever-heaving, lifting, pounding, probing –

Cease! The bursting heart no more can bear

But pause and ponder inscrutable Passion.


His load shifts forward, but beams of iron

Hold fast with parchéd timbers, dry with grief.

How I thirst; He quenches all desire,

Wringing Himself for my treacherous relief.

Cross, most fortunate, assigned by Pilate

To the Guiltless who now refuses to weep.

Instead, a whisper comes as Spirit wings

Heavenward – Corpse crumpling under weight.

These Passion-soakéd timbers bear Paschal Sheep:

Oh Death, you art indeed a lovely thing.



Deus vult! 
Omnis enim gloria Eius per Mariam,
~ AB