THE CROSS

Agony ended in death's gentle dominion, 
the cross now stands empty, washed 
in the lingering hues of anguish and release.

The vertical timber rises verdant 
from the blood-soaked soil 
to blend with the crossbeam, 
then stretches upward toward 
the rainbow clouds and the pale 
rays of the shuttered sun.

Evening falls, the crowds disperse, 
the mourning mother cradles her son's head 
then carries him to the sheltered cavern.
Colors fade into night; all that remains 
is a simple wooden cross on top of a hill.