A carpenter was given task;
nobody thought it could be done.
A bridge that spanned eternity
was priority number one.
This carpenter, he had no tools;
materials he had so few.
Yet without doubt he set to work-
he knew just what he had to do.
With two great beams of solid wood,
fastened in a criss-cross fashion,
and three old nails, wrought of iron,
completed his fateful mission.
He had worked with a crew of twelve,
but in the end, he toiled as one.
Regardless, he had kept the course,
and labored til the bridge was done..
He never had union backing,
and was never properly paid.
Where other workers would have quit,
this carpenter would not be swayed.
Now, in the end, his blood and sweat,
the bridge's strong foundation made.
The final sacrifice of life
made sure its timeless glory stayed.
There is no toll to cross this bridge;
the price was paid in blessed blood.
Who'd have thought a bridge to heaven
could be made from a cross of wood?
A poem of a different kind, for me.