What ever happened to the nails,
The ones that were forced through the flesh of my Lord?
Who pulled them out of His hands and His feet?
Surely they dripped with His Blood.
Were the nails just tossed aside or kept to be used again?
Were they tucked in the pocket of a bystander’s robe?
Did His mother embrace them or would she have hurled them away?
Did they inspire compassion and love or perhaps panic and fear?
Were they rusty old nails that had been used before to hold someone else to a cross?
Were they special in any way to the eyes of the crowd, did the guards pay attention at all?
Once removed they had to be covered with Blood, who’s hands did it get on?
Whatever happened to this one or the several who held them?
I’ve not heard a legend passed down though the ages that tells just what happened that day.
They were instruments used in the greatest of plans, surely God knew how special they’d be.
And what of the crown made of thorns that He wore?
Was it taken by someone He loved?
Did it fall from His head to be trampled upon?
Was it broken in pieces and then blown by the wind?
The cross that He laid on to be nailed to and die,
was the wood then just used on a fire?
Did His friends who there stood as the cross was let down
seek to cherish the things that He touched?
Was hatred and anger the rage of their tears?
Did they fathom just what had gone on?
As they bathed His dead body and prepared for His grace,
did they hold Him and grieve out loud?
Were they quiet and reverent, overwhelmed by the day?
Could they sleep that night at all?
Had they failed Him? Had they betrayed Him?
Did they feel that they had been betrayed by Him?
Did they totally let go, believing they had put their faith in a mere man? ~Helen Williams! c 2002