Christ by Pyrography

An image burned into old wood.
A searing reminder of sacrifice.
Just once and for all, in fact,
Reflecting a divine love.
"His love," God said,
"Would suffice."

Thought a demeaning likeness by some,
Of The One who taught love and peace,
Not to be celebrated.
Humiliation should not be seen as art.
The truth of His underserved death remains.
It gave all for my life's new lease.

A gift, this Man of Sorrows' face
Burned into the weathered wood.
A painfully cruel depiction,
Of a thorny crown,
Blood flowing down,
Costing everything, as it should.

It hung for years on my vanity wall.
That a dear sister's love entwined with His
Could begin the day with me.
I'd think on Him,
Ask His blessings on her,
But one morning I asked, "What's this?"

The burned face of Christ was gone!
The nail so lonely and bent.
Since then I've pondered this mystery,
Wondering, "Was it too costly
For some visitor, or friend, or thief?"
Though I still cannot say where it went.

Mysterious are His ways and perhaps
Another man of sorrows
Had need to look upon that Face.
God sent a thief who would re-gift.
Truly I ask, cherishing that thought
And who am I to not willingly share?