THE CARPENTER AND THE SMITH

I was the smith who made the nails.

With my nails they crucified the man

from Nazareth who rode on a donkey

through the gate of Jerusalem to his death.

I saw him, enraged, in the Temple before
that day on Golgotha came

and I knew I watched a man whose days were few.

I was the carpenter who made the cross.

Good, stolid wood that could have raised

the roof over a family house for many years.

Instead it raised a man up in the blood-dripping air.

What a waste of good wood,

to put a man between earth and heaven
as a sign to all.

I was the smith who made the nails.

I was in the crowd that shouted for Barabbas

(for when given a choice we know that there

is no choice, that is implied) and I shouted with them.

I chose Barabbas, because there was no choice.
Roman steel told to that to us
and taught us well.

I was the carpenter who made the cross.

I watched my cross being carried to the hill

and him on his last travel before darkness.

When the crowd shouted, I shouted with it.

When the crowd spat, I spat with it.

When the crowd threw stones, I threw with it.
This is the wisdom granted by Roman steel.

I was the smith who made the nails.

I saw those nails of mine hammered

through flesh and wood. Deep

did my nails go and they kept a man suspended

between life and death until death won

as the soil under my feet shook.
Even in the shattering of the land they held.

I was the carpenter who made the cross.

I saw my cross rise against the blazing sky

with flesh nailed on it; a man beyond life,

not yet embraced by death; I saw

and watched soldiers throw dice,

felt the earth tremble and heard his final scream.
Even the agony of the soil didn't fell my cross.

I was the smith who made the nails.

Well did I make my nails,

well did they do their work.

Many a house, many a barrel

have my nails held together,

like it held him to his fate.
Yet I feel those nails crucified us all.

I was the carpenter who made the cross.

There is no shame in working and shaping

the wood into a cross; the only shame

is in its use, to bind a man to his death

with wood and iron nails,

to bind we who watched his passing
to some mystery that eludes us.

17.02.2019