He sees, but people only look like trees
walking, indistinct, the colors blurred,
their faces ovals peering through the seas
of cloth with no expressions. Every word
misses its visual context; half the sense
is lost. Much better than be fully blind
as he once was, but he’d be truly dense
if he left at that first touch and resigned
himself to that much healing. All the way
to 20/20 vision (nothing less).
Christ touches his eyes twice, and the display
is clear. So clear is Jesus’ power to bless.
Why am I, then, content with one small touch
when His hands ache to heal and bless so much?
He’s made his choice, and now I must make mine:
If I should wait on some small chance that he
can face the darkness and claim victory
when weak men rule, their kingdoms in decline.
Few mortals have a majesty so fine
as his, but for his love, mortality
must bring me midnight, and the open sea
must be denied—and Valinor divine.
Ah, Luthien! what was the worth of Beren?
What is the worth of Aragorn? Is death
as hard as an eternity alone?
Is it both life and death that we should share in?
And when I brave his disappearing breath,
my choice will still be perfect as his own.
On the other side of sin, and guilt, and shame
and shaking hands and reddened eyes and fists
beating on knees in anguish, I hear my name
and feel my God’s hands clasp mine at the wrists.
“Well done, My good and faithful one.” Who, me?
Who stabbed You with each wandering word and thought?
Sometimes I speared Your side deliberately
as long as I could slip away, uncaught.
“Who hit You, Jesus?” Oh, You knew. You knew.
These hands that bruised You bruised me. I awoke
and saw too clearly what I’d done to You.
Your lips did not condemn me when they spoke.
Now we forgive me, though I don’t know how,
except that love covers all wrongs – Yours, now.
Some say that joy is never as profound
as the sharp pangs of grief which deepen souls.
Pains push us inward, concave. So we round,
but only by negation, massive holes.
Our senses scream that darkness is more true,
and so the devil whispered in Eve’s ear.
She ate the fruit for godship, quickly knew
no more of peace, only the void of fear.
Her fuller knowledge shadowed deeper loss:
a something gnawed away, a nothing gained—
a dead son—Christ subtracted on the cross.
He poured His spirit out as life was drained,
but for the future joy the nails were driven,
and joy reached deep as pain to bring us heaven.
I cannot delude myself, dilute myself,
any more, Ladies’ Man,
that your kindness is more than a general good will,
a godly kind of love, to be sure,
and yet with an unknowing power to kill.
Why wait for you, Ladies’ Man,
except that there is no one else who hugs me,
but the same long arms hug many—
is your hug worth a penny?
The cost, the worth of love are lost in labor
and honest sweat and earnest eyes and prayers denied.
So quickly, Ladies’ Man, you captivate,
so quickly kindly dissipate
through a sea of nice girls.