From the Cross

 
I am the Cross that he carried,
I weighed him down,
saying, I have sinned,
and will sin,
I will be saved
and I will sin.
So I pressed him down.
 
I am the wood that abrased him,
bruised him and cut him,
hard, square and splintered,
rubbing against him,
inert, clumsy burden
wherever I touched him
I opened his sores.
 
I am the wood he was pinned to.
He willed himself on,
smashing against me
and would not tear down
his Omnipotent palm;
though I held the bonds,
he would not step down.
 
I am the cross that he died on.
Like the bitten apple
which could not grow again,
each grain felt him dying,
none could respond.
From the soft body,
blood running cool.
 
While he prayed and thirsted
Godhead condescended
to union with the helpless
inanimate in death.
When the pulsing ended
we were one.
 
As the Cross I tell you:
come within this Presence,
only under outstretched arms
catch one drop of life-spent blood,
– you can kill him –
he will save you.
 
(1960s)