I was raised in the shadow of the
empty cross, the Protestant Promise,
the only ornament on our white-
washed walls. I was taught the why.
Jesus wriggled off those rusty hooks
then hid out in the cave three days
until he was good and ready to resurrect.
His followers are “after” the cross.
Forgive me, but now I must protest for
after half a lifetime of rushing ahead,
of Paul Harveying the gospel, my
eyes are drawn to crosses that still hold
the man down. Give me crucifixes where
the wounded head and side are on full
display still bleeding for you and for me.
This is not to say Rome is the answer.
This is to say joy will come some morning,
but for today it is still night and I need
the Savior who knows his way in the dark.