FATHER, FATHER
ALM No.87, March 2026
POETRY
Jesus, I wonder —
when He died on the cross,
and closed his eyes,
beneath His blood,
with his last breaths,
did he smell wood?
And, for a moment,
was He brought back home?
To Nazareth’s woodshop?
Where His childhood splinters were soothed
and nothing was demanded of Him?
As He died, I think —
He thought of His father.
Not His Father,
but His father.
The carpenter who loved Him first,
a father who He did not share,
a father who was not His blood or His maker,
but a man that smelled like sweat and sawdust.
Before miracles
or legitimacy.
A father who looked in the eyes of a boy
who would be King
and said,
“It’s alright, son.”
So, I wonder —
as wood and iron bit into flesh,
and He called out, “Father!”
Was He the boy or the King?
And, I think —
When He called out, “Father!”
He didn’t long for honour,
for duty,
but a father of comfort.
That father, His father,
would’ve pulled the nail from his boy’s hand
like any carpenter in any workshop.
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