The Carpenter

The Galilean sun smiled down upon the dusty little town and lingered o'er one humble spot, a peasant's home and modest shop. Long shafts of light fell 'cross the door to lay bright carpets on the floor where children played in perfect peace about the shop. Their joy increased each time they caught a glimpse of Him, the carpenter who worked within. His face was gentle, eyes were kind; and as He worked, He did not mind their ceaseless chatter, endless play nor did He find them in His way. Their laughter rippled round the room; they scattered sawdust with a broom. the wood chips falling at His feet became for them a fishing fleet or beds and chairs for little dolls, a manger or a cattle stall. Surrounded by the commonplace; and yet, uncommon was the grace with which He faced each daily task as if all Heaven lay in His grasp. A carpenter He was by trade; the wood responded, unafraid. beneath His hands each piece was formed into an object to perform some deed of usefulness or skill, the needs of men to fitly fill. Precise He was in all His craft from oxen yoke to shepherd's staff to couches for a nobleman; he was a careful artisan. Each part was polished, sanded, ground; no painful splinters could be found to pierce the flesh of those who bought the items fashioned in His ship. There wood was sacrificed for man beneath its own Creator's hands. Does it seem strange that He would die, suspended between earth and sky, upon two rugged beams of wood, this carpenter whose work was good? Faye Lanham Gibson Copyright, 1987