Poetry

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THE NAILS

Three nails or four
where did they go,
touched by the blood
flung to the earth below.

Were they used on another
or carried away,
where are they hidden
are they somewhere today?

They pierced his hands
and pinned his feet,
holding him tight
to the tree of light.

Did they pound them out
or pull them free,
and drop him gently
from that tree?

Bits of the true cross
are found everywhere,
but no sign of the nails
are found here or there.

To the cross and the man,
to the tomb and the tree,
to the nails and the spear,
with no body to see.

To the nails and the cup
and the burial shroud,
though we look all over
will never be found.

No proof of the man
is anywhere around,
everything truly
returned to the ground.

That the man existed
on faith we agree,
and we must do so
for all to be free.

To top it all off
and fill us with glee,
is to know that he did it
for you and for me.

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