we were born of fire,
hammered on the black anvils of Caesar,
not knowing the shape of our sorrow.
the hands that made us
did not dream of gods.
we were meant for beams,
for oaths and doors,
not for the breaking of the world.

but we were chosen.
they took us from the leather pouch,
gleaming like dark stars,
and drove us into the outstretched hands
those hands!
so full of mercy
they did not close against us.

He did not curse
as we entered Him,
bone and sinew groaning
like old trees in a storm
He looked through us,
past the blood,
into the silence beyond death.

we held Him,
yes
held Him like anchors hold ships,
like memory holds pain,
like the grave holds death.
we drank of His warmth,
and trembled.

the sky broke.
the earth went still.
we, who were nothing,
felt the world shift
on our thin backs.

when they pulled us free,
we were wet with sorrow,
and the shape of His love
never left our iron.