Poetry

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THE CARPENTER

The carpenter looked upon the work he had done
He had chosen the wood with the greatest of care
The saw had been carefully drawn across each board
And then assembled, as he had done too many times before
But this one was special, they said it was for a King.

Pleased with his work, he stood back and paused
Awaiting the time that it would be put to its use
Not wanting to think of the agony soon to be endured
Knowing that before long the price would be paid
And the price was high, it was the life of a King.

They had beat Him and scorned Him and crowned Him with thorns
He had been denied and mocked and spat upon
Then made to carry the carpenter’s labor
The wood never painted, now heavily stained in red
Somehow, it doesn’t look like a throne for a King.

Hoisted high upon it, for all the throng to see
Stripped of all His clothes and any decency
Nails pierced His hands and through His feet
A spear penetrated His side to make sure the deed was complete
The only charge was that He was the Jewish King.

Darkness suddenly replaced the light of the day
And lightning bolts ripped through the sky
The carpenter’s labor had done its job
A tomb was to be his final resting place
But the bonds of death could not keep this King.

For you and I, He left His heavenly throne
For you and I, He lived here on this earth
For you and I, He took our sins to the cross
For you and I, He arose up from the grave
For you and I, the decision is ours,
And we must choose.

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