Christ’s blood christened my seasoned wood.
I am the only Holy Rood.
I felt Christ’s cheek next to my own.
I held Him as He died – alone.
I kissed His head that day He died
Standing as He was crucified
My strength remained as His gave way
Upon His fatal Good Friday.
His blood gushed out. The sky grew dark
I did not run. His vital spark
Departing, Him I cradled there
As women wailed in bleak despair.
They took Him down, and as He left
I sighed, feeling suddenly bereft
Of My Creator and My King
Whose life-blood through me was soaking.
His blood has truly hallowed me
A rude-made, rough and sturdy tree.
By me His Death was turned to Good.
I was, am still, the Holy Rood.