His calloused hands caressed the wood that, shortly, he would plane.
The carpenter was on his knees examining the grain.
The Romans wanted cross beams and the carpenter knew why:
Upon this tree the rebel, Jesus, would be crucified.

He’d never heard the rabbi speak to the admiring crowds.
He thought himself too practical to go in search of God.
In the temple he made sacrifice; he conformed and he complied.
He’d seen too many mad for God and noted how they’d died.

The carpenter thought it was a shame; this wood too good you see.
It’s a tragic waste of good timber to make a hanging tree.
Still the money came in handy as good wine was still not free.
Galled wine would be served in a sponge to this man from Galilee.

The crowd called for Barabbas when this Jesus was condemned.
He shuddered as he thought of the cruel way this life would end.
There is no dignity he could see in a death upon a cross;
mocked by the onlookers while his women wailed his loss.

The Roman paid him coin and slaves bore the beam away.
The sad procession passed his shop later that same day.
The Rabbi wore a crown of thorns, fashioned from the jujube,
and there, upon his shoulders. He bore the hanging tree.