This poem comes from looking at the cross which hangs in our church’s sanctuary, and imagining it silhouetted against a gloomy sky – a bold, stark shape which would conjure dread in ancient times. Looking up at that shape which has become so familiar, I was struck by the fact that the shape was not always known as a picture of hope. No, if anything it was the cross-hairs of justice, the place of distortion and terror. Justice and grace met there, because grace had no merit until that justice was wrought on our behalf.

As such, it’s not a “nice” poem, but it is glorious. (Sorry mum).

Sign of horror
    Shape of hope
On its beams
    A tangled man

In its shade
    Sand is choked
Red with wage
    From every clan

On the upright
    There he spoke
Hope for life
    Across the land

Bars of wood
    Sin’s rough yoke
On his shoulders
    This his plan

Shape of horror
    Sign of hope
Crossed with sorrow
    God for man