All in an April Springtime, II.
I am the wood On which you chose to die. I am the beam you carried on your shoulder, Pulling at your torn and scourged flesh. I am the rest on which they laid your hands, You held me close, As close as nails could hold. You drew my pain To make it yours. And then they lifted you And you forgave me.
Saint Francis, we know, received the marks of Christ’s passion in his own flesh; here he contemplates the instruments of the Passion. Sheila has a Franciscan insight here; the Cross itself feels the pain of a broken world. Perhaps we, too, should be seeking forgiveness for the wrong we are unwillingly complicit in committing against God and his Creation.
Two poems from American poets that harmonise with this one were published here a couple of years ago. Start with Joyce Kilmer’s prayer of a soldier in France and follow the arrow to the next post by Christina Chase. Happy Easter!