Somewhere there lies the dust Of that rough wooden cross which Jesus bore Up Calvary. And which, in turn, bore Him; Was crimsoned with His blood. Dark stains were left Which sunshine could not bleach, Nor pelting rains erase. 'Twas cast aside in superstitious fear Because tradition said He lived again; And so it lay, until the Mother Earth Received its crumbling dust back to her breast. But on that spot do lilies bloom With richer coloring, sweeter fragrance? Somewhere there lie the nails Which Roman soldiers drove through His Extended palms. How cruel was the pain! The blows of hammers rested at His word— "Father, forgive them, for they know Not what they do." Stout spikes were they, Forged at the smithy in Jerusalem. Somewhere they lie, corroding black With rust of ages. Or have they turned to gold Through alchemy of Deathless Love? |