He chopped and sawed the logs of wood,
It didn’t need to be so good.
Just crosses would be made of these,
For Jesus and a couple of thieves.
It didn’t have to be so good,
He drove the nails into the wood.
Two crosses lay on the ground,
And then his heart in sorrow drowned.
He touched the last one’s roughened wood,
A criminal’s tree… his Lord so good!
Yet on this cross, Jesus would die,
He set to work with a deep sigh.
No will to go on he would stop if he could,
The tears rolled down and soaked the wood.
He wished his hands could better serve,
Did he this awful pain deserve?
On Golgotha, these crosses stood,
The center with the Saviour so good.
” It is my cross,” in anguish he cried,
His Lord gave up the Ghost and died.
The third day dawned, and he understood.
Gone was his grief, as indeed it should,
“My Lord is risen, jubilation!
His sacrifice was for our salvation.”
The awful cross, the pain, and the gloom,
Death was vanquished said an empty tomb!
No more he moped as he daily would,
No more it hurt, that cross of wood.
He knelt and praised the Risen Lord
The Perfect Man, The Son of God!
by Joy Clarkson (2006)
This writing was a result of my thoughts that went to the carpenter/s who were employed to make crosses. And I ventured to imagine how it would have been if a skilled carpenter, who was also a secret believer in Jesus, was commissioned to make the crosses.
This poem was written in 2006, and published as a part of a writing exercise on a given topic on Faithwriters.com There’s no historical or Biblical backing to the carpenter part and it is purely imaginary! I have edited the original poem a teensy weensy bit.