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The Wait of the Cross

The wait of that Tree is heavy as time piled high.
And though I see the waited load, I know not why
He bears it all for me. Sitting at its foot I sigh,
“Come down, please. I cannot bear the sight.”
Of course, as I thought, came no reply.

It’s out of reach, you see, that Tree;
Or so I thought: The only fool here was me.

Looking up, again, I asked,
“Why do you stay there? Why not come down?”
Down again, came no reply, but a gasp.

Ite, missa est.

Published inPoetry