He knew the secrets of this wood He knew it should be shaped for good. He was not sure that he approved when the Centurion came seeking a rood.
The grain was heavy and unforgiving It was surely meant to serve the living. Now a means of torture it must be for some rebel rabbi from Galilee.
Whipped and scourged like a beaten dog, a poor excuse for a son of God. He staggered through the streets of the City Cursed and reviled for few showed pity.
His grieving mother, one courageous friend, and his woman stayed until the end. Nicodemus helped to take him down with my ladder he had brought from town.
Those who died with him fed the dogs but the Rabbi did not share their fate. His body was lain in a Hillside tomb on Nicodemus' own estate.
What happened next depends on Grace What transpired there on the third day? Did the body rise or was it just misplaced? Some will scoff while others pray.
I contemplate the rough hewn rood Now to me it seems a stranger. Was it used for good or ill? The secret is held in the hands of the Maker.