God's Tree

There was once a tree, a very special tree, in a very special place. It was by God's own hand, as it always is, that this tree came to be. He ensured that the seed from which it sprouted was deep enough in the earth for its roots to take hold, but not so deep that it could not find its way to the surface. He gave it rain, and sun, but not too much of either. God watched over the small seedling to be sure it was safe. He needed it, you see.

The delicate roots took hold in the rocky soil, spreading out like hair, clasping the earth and drinking in the nutrients of life. God fed the tree by His own hand, and watered it from the rain in His storehouses. He protected it from the animals, sheltered it from the storms, guarded it with His strong right hand. He ensured the trunk was straight and strong, and that the branches sprouted high and wide. He smiled as the birds found shelter in His tree, and the deer found comfort in its shade. It was a good tree. His tree.

Year after year, God cared for His tree. It continued to grow, becoming what God wanted it to be, perfect for His purpose. God visited the tree often, caressing it gently with the breeze of His hand, knowing it was good. It was His creation, His plan, His tree. But there was a sadness about God when He came, a sadness which His angels could not understand. God had planted this tree, cared for it with His own hand. They did not understand the sadness of God, and He could not tell them. Not yet.

Then one day, as God knew they would, men came. Armed with axes, they circled His tree, His most special tree, and nodded to one another. This was the one. It was perfect for their purpose. Just as God had planned.

It happened quickly, as man's harvest often does. Unyielding iron bit into living wood, chopping, severing, killing. God's tree fell with a crash, the birds who called it home fleeing in terror, the deer who sought its shade watching from afar, unsure and afraid. Creation did not understand. But God did. God knew. He had known all along.

The men tore the limbs from the tree, needing only the trunk, strong and straight as God had ensured it would be. Chaining it to their beasts, they dragged it away, leaving behind a ragged stump, bleeding sap into the parched earth below as though God Himself were shedding tears of grief. And perhaps He was.

With the tools of their trade, the men formed and shaped, shaved and sawed, shedding sweat, and blood. When they were done, they stepped back, pleased with their work. This would do. This would do quite well. It was good. Very good.

What they had made, from what God had created, were two wooden beams. One lay atop the other, nestled in a notch cut just so. It had to be, you see, so that it could support the weight. The weight of a man. What man, they did not know. But God knew. He had known all along.

It was His tree, you see. Planted, watered, nurtured and protected by His own hand. For His own purpose. For His own Son. And it was the love He had for even the men who had taken His tree, and made it what it now was, that caused Him to look down, with a tear in His eye, and say, "It is good."