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It is not beautiful.
Standing stark on a
rugged Judean hill,
it mocks the blue
skies. Even framed
in azure, there is no
loveliness here, but
splinters and stains.
The surrounding air
is thick with smells:
vinegar, blood, salt.
With a cry, a raucous crow flaps and lands, pecks at one darkened spot. Just yesterday,
its beams groaned with the mighty weight of suffering. It is silent now, but if it could
speak, it would surely mention misery—it would surely speak of sorrow. A tattered scrap
of cloth clings to the tree, as if held captive by the power of passion. On the ground, a
piece of wood proclaims: King of the Jews. This is not a proper banner post for a king.
It is not beautiful.
No rose will spring
from this tear-soaked
ground. The echoes
lingering in the air
are shouts and jeers,
not angels’ songs.
But look again! In
this place Love was
sacrificed by Love,
in order that Love
might live. Shadows
of innumerable sins
are fading now into
the weathered wood.
Do not linger here
at the foot of these
besmirched beams.
Look away—away.
Your savior is not
here. Turn around
and follow the path
to a stone-sealed
tomb. Wait. Wait.
Wait. Soon you will
see the end of death,
the birth of Grace.
Now—grasp Grace.
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