Lifted

He was elevated.

It was not for the purposes of admiration or acclaim;

a strange glorification.

The crudely fashioned wooden platform

is no pedestal.

What, then, shall we call it,

this instrument of shame and death;

conveniently named for its shape

rather than its purpose? No matter,

the two have been conflated

over the millennia.

There is, however, no convenience in death.

No, that is not true.

It is all a matter

of where you are standing.

Lifted from the earth,

three metres, four at the most,

anchored to earth’s rocks and dust

not by nails driven cruelly into timber,

but by cords;

willing ribbons of love.

© Ken Rookes 2015.