The rugged cross we touch, we cringe. Splinters enter in.
Roughness, rawness, decay and rust. This was ours had not the Son Trusted.
He submitted himself into his fathers hands, that are inscribed by the great I Am.
Letters long as miles, names upon name piles.
Scratched, scraped on his magnificent hands. Father like Son, covered in brands.
Blood covered prints, scabbed sores. Touch reduced by thorns.
Seeping scratches, brittle bones, pierced by a sword, tossed at with stones.
Bruises instead of blush, stench not sweetness, only meekness. Risen in glory, our hands raise high. Healing and beauty, no spear in the side.
Smoothness like oil, softness like fleece, fingers open in release.
Feathered future, pardoned past. Silk garments that last.