Wood Finish

by Laurel Stowe

His hands held tools and scraped raw wood until

It smiled in beauty. His hands bled after

Such rough work. There were tables that he built

And chairs and even tiny cradles

Of pure wood. His hands held tools and He

Was strong and rough, they thought, as He would pound

And split whole logs and scrape them raw in silence

With his bleeding hands. He left us more

Than wooden things and more than blood when those

Hands nailed Him to the wood, the wood he loved,

Wood and nails by which He lived, He died,

Pierced through by earth’s thick wood and iron nails.

Photo by Paul Mower