What do we do with the mystery of the cross? Do we try to make sense of it, arguing over whatever we think God was doing on that dark day and the golden morning that followed on the third day? Do we fold the mystery away in some mental storage compartment and promise to think about it some day — or promise ourselves that we’ll ask God about it when we get to heaven? Or do we live into the mystery, letting what our minds can’t encompass fill our hearts?
The King of Calvary
He wasn’t much of a king.
He was dusty, and the dust
Was streaked with sweat.
He stank of mortality.
Dried blood clotted his beard and striped his face,
And his hair was tangled where thorns had caught it.
When we went to place the nails,
His feet were dirty and calloused in our hands.
His eyes were tired, red with tears;
His shoulders slumped with pain and weariness.
His garment was damp with sweat
When we took it from him.
But it was a good one, woven all in one piece,
A little coarse, but serviceable.
We had a right to it, to share it.
But it would have been a shame to divide it,
So we settled it with dice.
I have it still, folded away.
Somehow I couldn’t wear it.