The Cross
by Peter Stiles
I.
I saw a most amazing scene,
when hard, dead wood turned green.
Where splintered, heavy timber, cruel,
painful to lift and crueller still to bind
pure wrists in agony, can find
new life, and flourish, evergreen,
and blossom as a tree, where we
can kneel in awe, and prayerful, see
such petalled grace, such dignity.
II.
The berries on the hawthorn tree
remind me of your love.
Like droplets of your precious blood,
a mesh of mercy it has stood
there, drawing me to silent prayer.
There is a voice within that tree,
that calls my name, quiet, divine,
to plunge into that mystery,
remind me of that distant tree
where Jesus died in agony.
III.
For many years I’ve knelt beneath this Cross,
diffuse blue tiles scanning to
the symbol of my faith, central and safe.
Many songs in praise have here been sung,
and passages read, of a man
who once reclined with friends
for wine and broken bread.
Sound words have here been spoken,
unwrapping a story,
a gift beneath a yuletide tree.
My eyes are drawn above.
This is an endless offering of love.
Peter Stiles lectures at Excelsia University College in Sydney, Australia. His third collection of verse, Galilee, has just been published, and is available on Amazon.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy