Our Old Home.

On futile turf we walked.
Pressing in. Pressing on.
No light for our eyes; no hope for our hearts,
We trod to the place we belong.

Like burdens of lead strapped to our backs
We carry our sin and our shame
To the place on a hill, the place of the skull,
The place rightfully bearing our names.

A hammer, some nails, two beams of rough wood
The materials constructing our dwelling.
Harsh, unforgiving, unlovely, unending
the structure our narrative telling.

Wearisome steps compiling,
to that cruel figure closer we drew.
To lay in our feces of inner diseases.
No, we didn’t expect to see You.

You, in our place.
You, who spoke space
Into form now debased.
Not even a trace
Of heaven erased
From Your divine face.
Taking scorn and disgrace
Of the whole human race
For our filth to replace
With a covering of grace.

The cross has become
Our common ground;
The place where divine
And humanity are found.

We meet You there, upon those beams
The place we once called our home.
Now it is possessed by another as well
By the One who made it His own.

Mock You, we will. I am certain of it.
We will effort to make this feat minuscule.
Still choosing our shame and our older names
Your cross I know we will ridicule.

But when we forget, distain, or neglect
Our union with You on that tree
Bring us back to the cross, the place we belonged
And teach again that to be free.