A meditation on the cross

I imagine they made it of living wood; 
the tree itself shared your fate,
cut down in service of hateful violence,
its beauty overlooked, its sacrifice,
turning our exhaust into air, sweet bitterness 
of fruit and pollen, its praise of heaven, 
limbs raised high, razed to the ground 
with you. They did not see 
or understand that its roots 
already harrowed earth 
so that from its demise 
a thousand creatures might arise, 
give thanks to their Creator 
for the tree of life.

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