The Day of Revealing

The day I had been waiting for this week arrived. I had the opportunity to give my poem to my student, not quite sure what her reaction would be. She is a profound writer; I write for fun. She is metaphorical; I am matter-of-fact. This would be interesting, but I knew God called me to write the poem for a reason; now it was His turn to work in a heart.

She melted as I told her I wrote a poem just for her. I told her I had shared it with no other student. She read it, enjoyed it, and suggested an alternative ending. I encouraged her to re-write the ending for me, and she did. The result was beautiful and ironic. I ended my poem in despair, just so I could touch her, but she ended the poem with joy and victory. Regardless of who you are or where you have been, regardless if you rejoice continually or wallow in self-pity, you cannot help but see beauty in pain, hope in despair, victory through death, and joy through sorrow when you fall before the foot of the cross.

The revised poem with her changes in bold text:

Cries from the Cross
By Jenny Schulenburg and Her Dear Student (whose name I will not publish)

Disfigured and dismembered; indistinguishable figure
Neither boundless beauty nor faultless form.
Despised, detested, deserted, discarded.
Nothing but anguish, affliction, and agony,
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Carted away to the tree of torture
Sorrowful sufferer led to the slaughter
Servanthood enslaved, yet surrendered
Stricken and smitten; silent when shattered.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Blood splattered from broken brow
Penetrated and pierced, poked and prodded
Fragments of flesh lay lifeless and cold
Vicarious sufferer; sanctioned sacrifice.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Slash and stab and slice and sever
Snap, shiver, shout, scream
Sorrow silenced as death clouds over
Soul submitted; spirit succumbs.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Heavens crack and choke and chatter
Creator and King is crucified
Savagely seeking the sinner to blame
For all this demoralization and degradation.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

All my brooding bad blood
Feels this pain; wants to heal this pain
It is done; I have killed the sinless Savior.
My hands and hammer all
Imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Is there no salvation? No forgiveness?
Am I a malevolent murderer? Misunderstood menace?
Am I gripped by talons, tainted, tormented?
Not at the foot of the cross.