Sticks.
The King walks outside of the Garden,
Among the forest trees.
It’s different: damper, darker,
In the Garden, nothing is broken.
But The King has left the Garden.
Still, the forest echoes his own perfection,
His intended perfection.
He gathers up the broken sticks.
He holds them in his hand.
He rubs them, removing dirt, decay and broken bark.
He smoothens them.
He marvels at how far they have fallen.
He smiles knowingly at their weakness.
He looks up at the trees and takes in the beauty of his creation.
The contrast of the dark, fruitless, dead branches
Against the vivid forest canopy above is beautiful to him.
Against.
Against is a reality.
The snake slithers away up ahead.
His Majesty smiles again knowingly.
But he aches.
He aches for the broken branches,
They do not know where they came from.
They do not know what they are made of.
They do not know where they belong.
Still they lay there, comically defiant:
A stick raging against the Universe.
He takes the broken, decaying branches,
He sears against the death lying within.
He burns at the destruction of his perfection.
He gathers the kindling for a final funeral pyre.
But he fashions a Cross instead.
A Cross is not a tree.
A Cross is not perfection, but a declaration
Among the broken branches.
A Cross is fashioned,
The broken branches held fast by the splintered man,
Iron driven into the extremities, spanning the Cross.
The sky is broken.
Death is broken.
Wrath is satisfied.
The Cross is not a tree,
The Cross is for thee,
The Cross declares, God from the Garden:
“You belong to me!”
This is beautiful!!! That's such an awesome picture painted. You see His majesty, peace, omnipotence etc. walking through the forest hurt by the destruction yet peaceful.. "smiling knowingly." Then of course the ending... death broken & wrath satisfied! The cross.
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