The Woodworker

With broad, tired hands, the man worked his saw on a beam of wood with delightful mastery. The rhythmic motion of his effort was hypnotic, and soon in his thoughts he found himself.

Oh, how he loathed his work! He had dreamt of being a great craftsman when young, one who could weave delightful dresses for the prefect’s wife or make pottery akin to that of the Greeks or the ones many would admire in Rome, far away. He could have turned stones and metals into fine jewelry and great weapons, or manipulate wind into beautiful music. But, alas, he was a mere woodworker. It sure was a decent profession, but no grandeur was there in sight for him.

Wealth he had—more than enough—and security, too. He was better off than many others in his remote Roman province, and had little to complain about. Clothes, he had, and a roof atop his head. But the thoughts died not. They shouted at him from the depths, as if they were not his own.

‘Why have the gods given you such a destiny?’ they questioned, as he sanded down the long beam he had just cut. ‘What glory is there for you in this? In making these simple tools of death?’ They begged him to stop cutting and sanding. Perhaps he could still be a soldier, or something else; anything was better than a mere woodworker, who made things of little relevance, that would not perdure the passing of time.

What had his work against that of masons, which would stand still for centuries to come? Or that of smiths, whose blades marked the passing of history? Even poets, without anything material, could attain greater glory than him.

He finished sanding the long beam and grabbed the shorter one, in which he had worked earlier before the Sun rose. As he fastened them together loud shouts he heard from deeper in the city; vitriol at the governor’s palace. It fazed him not, but rushed him: his work was needed soon, he figured.

At last, he was done. Three steps back he took to face his work. Many times he had done this to make sure everything stood in its place, but this time he stopped and watched more carefully. The thoughts died. A tear escaped his eyes.

Many such things, such tools of death had he crafted in his life, including two others earlier that day, but none could be compared to this one. For a moment, the questions of glory and grandeur faded and the voices quieted down. This mere woodworker, lowest of all craftsmen, found it not hard to believe, for that brief moment, that that plain, wooden cross, was fit for none else than a king.