The Cross

The tree was gnarled, old and weak, no longer useful, way past it's peak.
The craftsman was called on to make a cross,
To bear a sinner, no great loss.

So chose the tree, that had passed it's youth,
Thinking to use it on the wasted and uncouth.
The years of weathering and broken branch,
Was clearly seen, as the craftsman cut the cross in advance.

This tree is of no importance, not useful for any beauty of craft.
We'll use it for this cross to bear, A man accused of sin and graft.

Then came the man, who carried the cross,
Tired and thirsty, a silent sinner, no great loss.

So goes the tale of that useless tree,
That still leaves its mark as it went down in history.
The tree held the man, who saved our soul,
A tree of great importance, in a special, sacred role.