Rough Wood

I sometimes forget,

that the cross wasn’t smooth to hold,

it wasn’t polished,

it wasn’t shiny gold.

.

It was rough wood,

that carved into shoulder,

a heavy burden,

for the beholder.

.

Not perfectly cut,

or varnished into place,

yet filled with arms open,

eternal divine embrace.

.

And yet I dare to wonder,

why my hands are feeling sore,

whilst picking up my own cross,

palms bleeding and raw.

.

And when I feel uncomfy,

or lost and out of depth,

I think of Jesus stretched out,

struggling for breath.

.

Because this is His cross,

not gilded and pristine,

but rough wood that we share,

on his shoulders do we lean.

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