Victory Worth the Cross

A lone walnut chanced to drop upon the sod alone,

Where it seemed to lie and simply rot, quietly, forlorn.

Its form was changed, its symmetry gone.

Its kernel worthless to eat,

What an untimely end thus to met.

 

Deep inside its little heart new life was beginning.

Oh, for a fresh start (another game – not a new inning).

A root from it ranged, a shoot saw the dawn,

A tree, from apparent loss.

Victory is always worth the cross.  – eab, 1/16/78

Written while working with Christ College in Friendsville, TN  

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Christ and Wood

He was laid in a wooden manger.

Played with shavings from the plane;

Knew the smell of cedar – sawn,

Could distinguish the oaken grain.

 

He preached from a wooden sailboat.

Called down Zacchaeus from a tree;

He cursed the fruitless old olive,

And, it dried up thoroughly.

 

He carried a wooden cross.

Than another shouldered the frame.

And since that infamous, ancient day,

Wood, crosses, haven’t been the same.  –eab, 10/82

 

Written while I pastored Christ Church – Bible Methodist, Friendsville, TN

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Rock and Tree

A rock and a tree are side by side,

The one alive, the other never died.

The one trim and tall, the other squat,

One “changeless,” the other will rot.

The one was here when Adam was here,

When human’s first sin brought the first stinging tear.

It felt the lap of The Flood in its face,

And knew earth’s tremor, when Christ died in disgrace.   -eab, 11/77

 

Written while pastoring Christ Chruch-Bible Methodist, Friendsville, Tennessee

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He Made

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

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Autumn

Black tree, tall, beyond,

Leaves small, bright, blond,

Days short, hazy light,

Nights long, moon bright,

Past the summer brief,

Now autumn, quiet relief.   -eab, 11/66

 

Written while in college, Cincinnati,Ohio

Other Fall Poems

 

 

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