Fit for a King

by Jesse Eric Whitehead

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Ouch, that hurts! I look down at my trunk to see men standing at the base. One man is swinging a large ax at me.

Chop. Chop. Chop. 

With each bite of the ax, I feel the sting, and I see wood chips fly. The men are talking. “This is a tough old tree,” says one man. “Strong and sturdy,” says another, “fit for a king.”

I ponder the words, “fit for a king.” I am the King of Trees in these woods; no tree stands taller or more majestic than I. No tree has prettier blossoms in the Spring, or more vibrant colors in the Fall. Surely, I am fit for a king. 

I’m happy. A surge of pride and excitement spread from my trunk to my limbs, and through my broad canopy of leaves. I will be in the King’s palace! Maybe they will make me into a throne. Or a bed frame, where the King sleeps every night. 

Chop. Chop. Chop.

I look down at the men below. They are half done cutting through my base. I shake a little more with each strike of the ax. 

Chop. Chop. Chop.

I’m sad. My life is being cut short. For what purpose? 

I will no longer be the envy of every other tree around. I will no longer provide cooling shade to those who pass by. I am the King of Trees! Why must I be sacrificed for another king? 

One man says, “This tree will make strong posts and crossbeams.”

I’m happy again. They will make me into crossbeams to support the palace roof, and posts to frame the walls. I am strong and perfect for this. Can there be a more honored place in the king’s palace?

Chop. Chop. Chop.

I shake more now and my leaves fall as a torrent of tears. Only a few more swings and I will fall to the ground.

“Hurry!” shouts one man. “We can’t keep him waiting.” 

“Who?” asks another. 

“The king,” he answers.

“Caesar is our king,” rings out a voice. “Is this tree for him?” 

“It’s for the one they call the King of the Jews,” he says. “This Jesus fellow everyone has been talking about lately. This man they call a prophet, teacher, and healer. This rebel who dares defy Caesar.” 

Chop. Chop. Chop. 

“Tonight,” the man continues, “we will crucify this king on this tree. With his consort of criminals. Worthless scum, all.”

The men laugh, their mocking voices filling the air with hate and scorn.

Pain pierces my heart, as strong as the pain inflicted by the ax. “Crucify?” I cry. “Oh, no! Please God, don’t let them make me into a cross!”  

The men ignore my pleas. The ax continues its relentless attack as I shake in terror. 

Chop. Chop…Crack!

I fall through the air in slow motion as time seems to stop. I hit the ground with a thunderous crash; the ground trembles like a mighty earthquake. 

I lie there, helpless. I feel the life force ebb out of me as the men strip my branches, limbs, and leaves. 

My thoughts blur and dim. Am I not meant for something greater than this? To be made into a vile cross? To crucify a king? Will my sacrifice be in vain? 

In my fading consciousness, somehow, suddenly, I know. This has been my destiny all along. My life’s purpose. I was created for this. 

Tonight, I, the King of Trees, will lift this man high for the world to see, in all his pain, agony, and death. The King of Kings. The Savior of the World. 

My sacrifice will not be in vain. Surely, His sacrifice will not be in vain either.