An Easter Poem

Trees grow. Trees are cut down. Trees serve their purpose.

Just think, Jesus.

Born in a feeding trough by the lowing animals.
As a man being apprenticed by his step-father Joseph at the carpenters bench.
Yet Jesus is the carpenter of the world and the human soul.

Jesus facing the cross at Good Friday.
The table which we all face as we remember your death Jesus on that tree.

Yet, I am glad that I can cling to that old rugged cross. And be cleansed of my sin at each and every
moment when I often fail to see the big picture as I live life.

Your story is retold countless times Jesus as we gather around the pews of our churches and the sands on the beaches.
Listening to the birds on the shore and feeling the coolness go past our ears.

Lord,, let us open our hearts to you
just as you opened up that tomb of darkness.
You let that light in.
Let us enter in as well.
Experiencing the joy of your salvation.

For even the trees of the fields clap their hands with Joy.
Yes, even those trees from which you were born and the trees upon which your breath left the earth,
leaving us speechless and yes
thankful as well.