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.