touched straw.
Did the salty gristle of earth pollute the yellow stems, when You felt it,
so far from the lacy silk in sky, perfumed in
incense soaked with Your people’s prayers?
Your hands might have grown on wood,
gripping it, the sweat leaking into the grain,
the sweetness of cedar filling the room where You worked,
soaking the sawdust.
These hands taught teachers
about the neon signs
pointing to Light Himself;
they clutched Mary’s worried hand.
What did Yours feel like against her relief sweat?
They touched death
and it lost its sting.
They infected the infected
with life, light,
like a candle in a dark room
that still does not know this Light
These hands would touch wood again,
the sweat’s salt mixing with blood,
making the basic an acid,
salting the earth—preserving us.
The hands holding so much that we can’t see,
both crushed and unbroken,
outstretched, making the shape that would hold
our cells together, even as You were torn apart,
Holding the weight of Yahweh.
Once, I looked backward at this moment,
knowing that the cross has rotted,
the grave vacated,
the rood’s song sung.
But now, I see it stand in front of me
as You were crushed—
the One who suffered and died for a selfish sinner,
that I may also die and live.
- Solomon A., Adult