Worthy.

An Easter poem.

the thorns on His head are more worthy than me to enter through the pearly gates

more important than i, they rested on the Man Who raises the dead and orchestrates fate.

the nails in His hands hold more significance than my sinful heart; greater was the iron that pinned Him to the wood which, if i was held in comparison of value, has a head start.

the wood of His worldly fathers profession now made the altar for His Heavenly Father’s plan of perfection—

the cross.

a symbol of the crucifixion.

all for my sin, my betrayal, my addiction.

how much more should the innate objects which played a part in the most glorious day in history feast in great halls of the kingdom on that day of victory?

for to witness the day when Jesus of Nazareth and Jesus of Heaven, one man yet the God who painted creation poured out His love for the worlds benefaction, in a way that no other can ever imagine—

to witness His glory from His own head or while buried deep in His hands— these things were not accessories but were placed specifically by the heavenly command— to mock and to hurt and to make Him a tale, a fiction that soon after His death would be bound to fail.

but despite their agonizing and morbid affliction, it was me, it was i who brought Him true crucifixion. my words and my deeds and my failures and tears— yes those nailed Him down, although after 2000 years.

i confess! it is i! oh Father i’m sorry— for the nails and the thorns and the cross which you carried, but most of all for the sins which rolled the stone to the tomb where you were buried.

yet the iron and wood He carefully chose for His death will not walk the great streets of gold or sit at the table He consciously set.

it is me, the greatest sinner of all, who will join with the chorus of angels and eat from His hand on that day. He chose ME; a beggar and thief rather than send me away.

no i am not worthy to cross through those gates or sit at His table

it was of Jesus, His life, death, and resurrection that now i am able.