The wood of the cross splinters all sin,
The wood of the cross pierces within.
It carves and molds
Every soul which it hews,
And gnarled imperfections are ground into use.
The wood of the cross is a rough, ready thing
Whose purity overlooks houses of kings,
A paradox upon which pilgrims will stumble:
The cross rises each day
In the hearts of the humble.
Cindy C. Lange, MA