Strange, that his sorrow should
Only be understood
By two rough pieces of wood.
The friends that lingered there,
However true they were,
Had grief of their own to bear.
They stood and mourned apart:
With but half a heart
For his sorrow and smart;
They mourned, and went their way
Into Heaven to be gay.
The Cross is faithful to this day.
O Tree of Life, that root
Hast not, nor hope of shoot,
Nor but this one sad fruit--
Thou, not Mary or John--
Thou, that he died upon
He chose for his eidòlon.
Though he by a word or two
Or a look, men’s hearts could woo
And knit, as none else could do;
Not one of the brotherhood
To whom he did good,
But two rough pieces of wood,
Hewn-off, exanimate,
Could carry and constate
His and his sorrow’s weight.