FATHER, FATHER

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.