A sensitive prose rendering of the lovely poem “The Dream of the Rood (Cross)” by an anonymous Medieval English poet.
From the poem:
Listen sweetly, for I will tell a dream–of all dreams, the best–come to me at guilty midnight, while the other voices slept, and I was wakeful.
Before me twisted and rose up a wondrous Rood, brighter than leaf-light, enveloped by beams.
Burnished as a battle-standard, it stood, lovingly covered in gilt foil of gold.
Where its root-end reached earth lay bright tangles of rivery gems; five gems as big as knuckles shone at the cross’ crux, bound tight as a dovetail joint.
Fair-formed hosts of eternal angels gazed glowingly down upon this gorgeous cross; certainly, this was no sinner’s gallows, framed for felons.
Holy spirits beheld it there, and all good men upon the earth earnestly stared, and all of God’s glorious creation circled round and cradled the wondrous Rood in its heart.