His hands, sun-scorched, grip cedar’s knotted grain,
Splinters pierce skin, blood beads like ruby dew,
The chisel bites, wood curls in fragrant pain,
A rough-hewn plank bends sleek beneath his hew.
Sawdust swirls gold in shafts of molten light,
Sweat stings his brow, a salty river flows,
The mallet thuds, a pulse through Galilee’s night,
Olive wood glows, its amber heart exposed.
A table gleams, its edges sharp with fire,
A yoke takes shape, smoothed soft as whispered breath,
Through dust and din, his craft lifts toil higher,
Foreshadowing his victory over death.
In every groove, the carpenter’s hands sing,
A maker’s love carved deep in every ring.