He made the tree on which He hung;
The earth to which it lately clung.
When innocent, it raised leafy arms,
While robins among them lived and sung.
He made the ore from which, by craft,
With forge white-hot and windy draft,
The town blacksmith sledged, with sinewed arms,
Long nails; innocent of greed or graft.
He made the sponge, carelessly raised,
Knew the near pool where it had “grazed,”
Commanding food with tiny arms,
Before beaching innocent and dazed.
He made the sources, rich in ink,
Where artist oft gave his pen drink,
Scrolling with careful, innocent arms:
“The King of the Jews,” making folks think.
He made the men, that unmade Him.
Knew their thoughts, goals, and every whim.
And as they nailed holy feet and arms,
Heaven’s innocence He prayed on them. -eab, fall ‘82
written in Friendsville, Tennessee
Separate-Holy 