Who crafts this blameless chest?

Perfection is now charred-
For olive tree deemed blessed,

let its lumber be marred.
A dead man beat the nails
in the chaste olive wood.
This depraved man cries, ails,
building not one thing good.
Behold! The chest’s a tomb,
where God bids “lay down thy soul”.
Hark! The casket’s a womb,
where man reborn is made whole.
Who wakes this holy chest?
O! His Greatness manifest!
Death henceforth suffers arrest.
His crafted now and ever rest.