A Piece of Wood, or the Mother of all Deaths

It is just a piece of wood.Something nondescript to beCarved into things. A cradle.A table.A cross. Maybe Mary wonderedAll those years agoAs she leaned overThat rough cradle.Wondered why every timeShe touched it,Something burnedIn her heart.A question.A nagging question.A memory that hungElusive, just beyond her reachLike a dream that disappearsAs you awaken in the morning.You know it was real, it’s thatYou cannot catch that elusiveWisp of memory. Today in Jerusalem,People jostle, mill around,Then in silence,They move to the edgesOf cobblestoned streets.It is a holiday.But as they watchThe piece of wood bumpSlowlyPainfullyThrough narrow streets,They do not feel joy.No.They feel uneasy.A question burns in their hearts.A nagging questionThat is unanswered Except by the bumps ofRough wood on stones,The groans of the oneWho bears a piece of woodThat was onceNondescriptAnd now has beenCut, planed, carvedInto an instrumentOf pain, torture, execution. He drags this piece of woodOn raw, bleeding shouldersUntil he falls under its weight.A soldier yells at a foreignerTo come and carry the cross.He is a foreigner.No power. No voice.So he sighs and takes the weightOnto himself. Together, they manage.The stranger bears a crossHe never asked to bear.The half-dead prince stumblesThe last mile toHis own death. It is not until the soldiersTake the wood from the strangerThat he feels somethingBurn in his heart.A question.A nagging question.A memory that hangsLike elusive dream at dawn. When he straightens up,And the soldiers push the prisonerTowards the rough woodOne last time,He turns to meet the piercing stareOf a woman. Her friends hold her up.Her eyes speak more pain thanHe ever wants to know.Her eyes burn his soulHe knows that her armsHave held the world. On his last day, whenSimon draws his last ragged breath,He will rememberThat piercing stare.That burning in his heart,That nagging question. Elusive memoryWill resolve in fine focus,The picture finally complete. Cradle.Table.Cross. The instrument of death holds the painOf innocent childrenOf mothers' arms in the nightOf prisoners at the last.The Mother of All Wood. Some people hate painAnd run from it.Others embrace itsCold wild waves.They welcomeThe Mother of DeathAs friend in oneFinalCruciformAnswer.(c) The Rev. Dr. Sheila N. McJiltonApril 14, 2017