The Poem of the Wood

When I was young,
I held the infant King.
Meek and mild, He rested on me
and slept so sweetly beneath the stars.
I feared my splintery outside
would hurt the Gentle Babe,
but the Virgin wrapped Him tightly
and let Him rest in me.
I whispered that winter night,
“Little King, could you make something special of me?”

As He grew, so did I.
His hands began to shape me.
He learned to cut and hammer and nail,
practicing how to make me beautiful.
I became tables and chairs—
something new every day.
Gentle Joseph taught Him,
remaining beside little Jesus,
adoring His every movement.

The child’s hands
became coarse and calloused
from years of working with my roughness.
And yet, He laughed and smiled
as He created and made me new.
A gentle Carpenter He was.

Soon, He left the little woodshop
to share the reason He had come.
The Humble King dressed in rags,
brought joy and love to the unseen.
His secret and I remained in the little woodshop,
near to Joseph and the Virgin
until the day when His Hour was at hand.

The Infant I once held,
now marred by whips and scourges,
gripped me with a tender embrace
as the two of us started up the hill
on our final journey together.

I remember the soldier’s grasp
as he placed me on the King’s back.
I became covered in His sacred blood
and my splinters scarred His glorious skin.
I cried out, for I did not desire to hurt Him,
but He embraced me nonetheless.
He fell, and I crushed Him.
He was weary, and my weight hurt Him more.
And still, He never set me down,
carrying me all the way,
until He was laid upon me.

His hands and feet nailed harshly,
His bloody back pressed into me—
so close was I to the Precious King.
I heard the sound of His whispered prayers:
Father, I love you, said He;
All for Thee, He whispered.
I saw the sorrowful gaze of His Mother
as she grazed me reaching for His Feet.
Her gentle hand was shaking in agony.
I heard the sound of her tender voice
repeating: I love you, my baby boy,
until the cry of the Son’s surrender
caused her to silently fall against me.
I remember the feeling of His body
as He breathed His final breath.
The life left him quickly,
and I held only His torn flesh.

That Friday, I died beside the King
who first breathed life into me.
I held the Maker of all things,
the one who once held me.
Together our bodies returned to the earth,
to lay in solitude with groaning creation.
And I feared this was all I would ever be—
the wood that killed the King.

But days later His Creative Breath was restored
as His resurrected body breathed once again.
His once darkened flesh
now shone with radiant light.
Rejoicing covered the earth,
for the darkness was now powerless.
The gentle Carpenter, a master of the wood:
for though I once held Him,
He now held me,
and lifted me high to be adored
as the faithful wood that held the Savior of the World.
Whispering softly to me He said,
“Little Wood, you shall remind this fragile world
that indeed through me,
all that was once broken is now made whole.”

And I rejoiced, for the midnight plea in Bethlehem
had now been answered by my Savior King.

[s.n.h.]