We carry our crosses
hung from our necks
lashed round our shoulders
nailed to our feet
No wonder we smack into doorframes
knock over our neighbors
slam face down in the street
All that dead wood
weighing us down
If only we dared look up
we might see him this Christ
head wreathed in thorns
nail studded palms
inclined toward us
What if we each rose
took up our splintery cross
and bore it in our arms
like a broken gift
What if we each rose
took up our cross
and followed the one
who forms hope from dust
©Cathy Warner
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