We have grown so used to looking on a crucifix. We've seen
So many crosses, delicate and cut
In ivory, and holding up the white
Christ placed in all proportion. We have seen
So much of symmetry and carven wood,
And we have come so many times to find
Him in a shrine. We've worn this on our breasts
And clung to it have gone to sleep beneath
It for a prayer, and waked again. And we have
Have known Him crucified. His head is upright,
And he stands on a solid ledge
With arms extended, and with dignity.
And it is good. Aye, it is good for us
To shape Him thus in meaning, and to leave
The stark remembrance covered in the years,
As once the darkness closed upon a plainer
Sight. We could not bear to see, no more
than others, older, nearer to His day,
Could bear the naked horror of a cross.
hey could not look upon a crucifix
So easily, his first of followers.
This was a death the Romans gave to slaves.
This was a death that held contempt
And pain and shame, all fastened into one
Great spreading gesture, set and bleeding there.
And this was His death, done to Him upon
A hill, and they could not be quick in looking...
Even on a SIGN.
But SHE was near,
She saw Him. She could see His cross in making.
Full. And plain. So near, her eyes could find no shield
nor lesser sight, nor any refuge
From the full perceiving, had her love been frailer
To have searched for it.
She SAW Him. - John Lynch