The Sign

An exhausted traveler, faltering, staggered along a desert trail,

searching for a city,

for a refuge from the night.

A dimming lantern, flickering low,

dangling earthward and heavy in hand,

its flame asmolder.

Tired and parched, beset on every side,

having reached a cross in the road,

they desperately sought the way.

The footprints of many were proof enough.

They moved on.

The cross in the road, a distant thought.

They pressed upon a path of stumbling stone,

wide and traveled, yet rugged still.

Although rejected, back at the cross in the road,

the sign still hangs,

ignored and unseen,

offering direction,

yet what good to those who will not see?

It marked a narrow way,

above the scourge of the trail.

The sign at the cross in the road,

if it were asked, would repine,

"How am I not beheld?

I stand eight feet tall and reflect the light."

Alas, they never raised their flame.

___________________________

Early this morning, I was dreaming of a traveler from bygone years, he was lost in the dark, desperately trying to choose a path. He turned toward a wide trail filled with loose stones and thorns and missed the narrow trail that would have taken him above those obstacles, which was clear. He chose, and went down that wide and dangerous trail. As his small light went out, I was awakened to a voice. I could still see the sign from my dream: a straight post with a cross arm, from which hung an old wooden sign with reflective words. A voice from the sign lamented, "How is it that so many ignore me? I stand eight feet tall and reflect the light." God showed me this was a parable, and I immediately wrote it down in the form of a poem.

After writing this, I put on my spectacles and proofread the poem. Understanding the symbolism, I looked up what scholars say about the height of Roman crucifixion crosses. I had never researched or heard about this topic before. The academic consensus places them between seven and a half and nine feet tall, with eight feet falling squarely in the middle.