After it had finished I waited with Mary,
When everyone had gone, we went up the hill,
But through our tears we couldn’t see
Which empty cross was ours.
We could hardly see while it was going on
And now among the jumble of wood we couldn’t tell.
We would have taken it home if we knew:
He had touched that wood.
They told me that crosses were bad:
You might end up worshipping an idol.
But I didn’t want to do that,
I wanted something to focus my unruly mind.
They said if I did have a cross it had to be empty
Because Jesus wasn’t there any more,
I understand, but every cross is empty now
How would I know which one is His?
This step, so small, yet impossible
A trivial sacrifice that I cannot but must make.
To think that this is the very cross
That He said we must bare!
His cross was bigger than the world
I don’t understand it
Mine; immeasurably small,
I understand it well: it will kill me.
Into resurrection.
Wilf Copping, October 2018
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