I was hewn down and that’s when the process began.
The cuts were sharp and deep. I was not a fan.
The pain was excruciating.
It was a pain like no other.
It was exhilarating!
But running beside my pain
was the joy of the specialness I might gain.
My sculptor did not tell me what I would be;
I just sensed in me that I could be.
I was so common for so long,
and now I was being shaped into something
unique and strong.
The days went by very quickly.
From the cuts, scrapes and pounding, I was sickly.
I felt the impact
of a sharp blade go up and down my back,
“Whack!”
Then a hack on my back,
another attack,
without tact and
with lack of love.
But I truly knew
I was being made into something
special and new.
As the day of completion approached,
I wondered what I would be.
I was anxious to see.
Would I be a masterfully carved antique face
or would I be the first plank on the royal stair case?
Was I an emblem of some great god?
Or was I the spitting image of some Greek body?
This type of musing was to exhausting for me to take
so I slumbered into a deep sleep and dreamed about my fate.
I was awakened to a new twenty-four
and thought, ”what will people say
when he walks with me through the door?”
I smiled with elation and brimmed with great anticipation
for this was the day when I would see me, feel me, love me,
a masterful creation.
“Finished at last” the artist sighed.
I wanted to cry because for the first time
I felt complete inside.
I felt honorable and famous.
But what was I? I don’t know.
I can’t see my face yet.
The pace
was too great
as the artist moved me to another place.
“Slow down, Slow down,
so I can see what you made me to be.
It was as if he heard me.”
His steps were now methodical, unhurried, and tamed
as the weight of my biology
was buried and pressed into his weak frame.
I looked to the right and there, in a mirror of some kind,
That?!
He wasted His time!
When I saw my reflection
I felt dejection
and depression from
the rejection
that I would receive
from people’s impression of me.
I was not famous, but infamous.
I was not unique, but ugly.
I was not a picture of fame but an emblem of suffering and shame.
I was not a bed where great men would lie.
I was a rugged piece of wood where murderers, thieves
and a man named Jesus would die.
I was diabolical, theological, paradoxical
I was a Cross! A Cross!
An ignominious, beautiful and glorious Cross!

What or who is God making you to be? Is it what you thought it would be? How has he used your pain to make you into something beautiful? Something useful? Something and someone who gives life?

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