Crossed


In its day, daily death by governed hand
was dealt routinely, if not crudely,
by efficient cross hung method; nothing special,
not worth noting to the average bloke.
But, were it not for calendar...
would church's roofs now be adorned
with statuesque images
of gallows standing tall with noose,
hanging hollow, emptied of its holy prey?
Should that thought disturb?
Or how far removed are we still
from sporting miniature electric chairs
on pinned lapels and bracelets,
properly stylized for denominational appropriateness?
Could possibly we be today found clutching
midst our heart pled prayers,
scaled models, perhaps life-sized replicas
resembling just the Saturday Night Special
used to slay the Son of Man?
Were it not for technology's lag,
would executioner's M-16, which firing squad employed,
find its trinketized self worn 'round our necks
or just a plastic bullet from?
To what extent does thirst compel us to enshrine
symbolized memory-joggers of that death's,
that famous death's instrumentation;
yet results in fascination for some trophied weaponry
marketed in tiny, cast facsimiles
or better still,
displayed in mammoth sculptures wrought by hands
to appease the more esthetic tastes among us?
What would those early followers,
friends of Him and family
say if but known to them it was
that generations since
were holding in their palms and pockets
reproductions massly made
of that device which tortured fast
to kill the mortal body of the Savior of the world
because there's little else to see
and touch and feel as a reminder?
What would they think?
Silently, I slowly turn the cross I sometimes hold
and do not know.

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown