Lenten days lie ahead.
A path well-trod with
might have beens.
Somehow the Cross
- that mighty key to eternity-
is less endearing on closer observation.
“I am not so sure that I can bear its weight.”

God smiles a little
spring flowers bloom
birds mate
and we wait
or hurry through the forty days
Giving up
or taking on
this or that
teeth clenched till Easter
and the chocolate egg.

Shallow thoughts from shallow people.

The Cross we nimbly skirt around
Rears up from the Earth’s death
and cannot be avoided;
Pointing, as it does,
each compass corner.
It does not ask to be borne or carried,
but rather to be pondered on,
- This instrument of our pardoning-

For He, who hung upon this tree,
stands on the further shore
Wound-studded hands and feet
pierced heart,
to welcome us
for all is done.

Anne Hine rscj