He knew me in a way that most men could not. He was, after all, a carpenter. He was a man; tough, calloused hands, muscular arms and triceps. He was no stranger to hard work. I knew at the very moment that He took me upon his shoulder – the way he touched me, maneuvered me, and appreciated me- that he was an artist.
I knew that this moment was what I was fashioned for- I was created for him. I could sense that he also felt that His destiny was in me. He was my purpose, and I was his.
Then we came together in a marriage of blood.
Is there irony in the fact that I was created with his hands, and now he will die, nailed to mine? The Artist’s executioner is his own creation. No, it was something far deeper.
There was something about this man who bled streams of blood and water on me that made my dried roots strain to drink again; something about this great artist that made me want to cry “I am alive!”
Though I don't speak their tongue, I could see what was happening. Some spoke violently, others murmur sarcastically, but he spoke to them with passion and sincerity.
They could not kill him; he gave his life up. Who can do this?
As he breathed his last breath I unexpectedly felt indescribable emotion serge within me. Suddenly Earth and Wind shouted in anger and brokenness; splitting the ground with an earth-shaking howl. Moon and Sun came together at midday and embraced each other in sorrow, turning the day into night, and joy into dread.
Men and women ran around in confusion; frightened children screamed, and families hurried into their homes hiding themselves. Then it began to rain.
It rained heavily. There was nothing ordinary about this salt-bitter rain; it was the tears of a billion heavenly creatures crying, miserably. A tangible darkness covered the whole earth.
Soldiers came and pulled him away from me. I couldn’t stop them; I didn’t want to be separated from this man. He meant something to me. He was the only one that had known me, loved me, and then he died upon my chest. And they stripped him from me.
I was covered in his blood. Not even the drowning rain could wash me clean of it. But the crimson blood that stained me made me unique. I was no longer an indistinguishable brown piece of Pine. Now I was clothed, by him, with Royal red. I felt life. He had changed me in some amazing way.
His body was taken away from me, but I still felt him near. I watched them carry him down the long muddy path until they disappeared over a hill.
I was left there with a great mystery. Who was the artist? What had he done to deserve our horrible union?
He was an artist, of that I was sure. But what did he create that was so evil that could possibly cause him to be found worthy of death? What had his hands created that was so forbidden, unwanted, and defiled that would place him upon me for judgement? Had he given life to a monster? No. Not this man. He was the Artist of artists. There was no way that any other could ever come close to him. He had life in him, and he must have breathed it into his artwork?
Was that the problem? Was his living art offensive to them? Were they jealous of what he had created with blood, sweat, and tears? Had he created a masterpiece in his own image which caused everyone to burn with envy?
Was his art misunderstood? Did they mistakenly think that his artwork was something, no doubt, incredibly brilliant and beautiful, to be hideously dangerous?
I am left here with only questions and no means by which to find the answers.
Who was he?
What did he create?
What good could come from killing such a man?
As I wait here, lying in a pile of wood, drying out so that I can be thrown into the fire, all I can think about is the one thing that holds all the answers.
The center piece of this great mystery is beyond my reach…
What did He create?
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