Gilded Crosses?
Gilded Crosses?
By Mark D. Stucky
Shiny icons gleaming on altars?
And hanging from necks on gilded chains?
No. Not back then…
Not golden, not metal, not shiny, not slick,
not smooth, not symmetrical,
not sanded, not straight.
Unvarnished, uneven, irregular, rough-hewn,
knotty, cracked, scrap wood
with hazardous splinters.
No sparkling jewels inlaying gold.
Just rusty nails
impaling flesh and bone.
No ornate mounting, no pristine pedestal.
Just dropped into a hole
and wedged with rocks.
No symbol, no sacredness, no beauty,
no justice, no hope, no gain,
no victory, no glory.
Just naked, scandalous, criminal, brutal,
with loss, sorrow, pain,
and inevitable death.
That is what a Roman cross was
and meant back then…
a death sentence,
an icon of horror.
Until…transformed
one dark morning,
when Light shoved stone aside
and sentenced Death to die.
(First published in Small Town Anthology V: Entries from the Fifth Annual Tournament of Writers, Schoolcraft Community Library, 2019, pp. 147-148. See also my related poems "Resurrection iBodies," "Darkest Night, Morning Lights," and "The God Behind the Curtain.")
(Image by congerdesign on Pixabay.com.)
Copyright ©
Mark Stucky
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