The Christ Tree
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Confined; squeezed; propelled
From warm wetness
Into a pair of calloused hands,
With the surge of inexorable force
That turns a girl into a mother.
Chill night air --- too well ventilated!
The shock of it precipitated the lusty cry
Which birthed relief and joy in your young parents.
Carefully they wrapped the strips of cloth
Around Your stretching limbs
You felt the firm security of folds of love.
You became the Man of Sorrows,
The focus of clamouring crowds of mixed
Passions and motivations
You inspired; You healed; You delivered;
But You also admonished and divided opinion.
You became the stumbling block,
Reviled and hated.
Yet someone loved You well enough
To weave a seamless robe of linen.
No "off-the hook" garment this ---
But folds of love.
After they flayed You,
Your trial completed,
It was put on You again.
Did it soothe the gaping wounds?
Or did it stick fast with serous ooze
And matt in with the weight of the beam?
And when they tore if off You that second time
To maximize Your humiliation,
Did the fresh scabs rip with it
Exposing the rawness again?
Was it then a robe of torture?
It appears that it was not so much bloodied
That its fineness was not coveted.
Dice chose the new owner.
Did he ever realize the significance of
The blood he won?
Did he ever claim its covering for his sin
As the cloth would have done so for his nakedness?
Those folds of love?
And when Yahweh raised you
Yeshua --- Jesus
And You left the grave-clothes empty,
The strips of linen You carefully folded,
Folded with love.
Then, dressed for Your resurrection appointments
In a divinely created garment
Of Your Father's fine fashioning
You shared Your victory;
Conveyed Your peace;
Revealed Your majesty
And opened the gate
To the fold of love.
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