In splendor
vivid, garish
it stands behind the altar
thirty feet tall
of exotic wood
shipped over from some dark jungle
that should be on the news
more often.
It is not the cross on which
a simple Palestinian
was laid to die.
His death was that of a humble
carpenter,
and the beams upon
which he cried out
were not a specimen of beauty.
Quite the opposite.
Unspoken Politics 