Here He is bound
as we are bound; His face
Wears our dumb
pain. The Word in silence hangs.
Carved from the stone
of our own stony hearts,
Burdened by time,
He is the Son of Man.
Here, underneath,
the shuffling pilgrims come
To gaze, to
wonder, or, indifferent, pass.
See, is there any
sorrow like to His,
He, to our torment,
the reflective glass?
These eyes left
blank to pierce, as He was pierced,
Straight through
that place where my soul’s tendons meet,
To separate me
from complacency,
Decapitating from
my self-conceit.
He has become
myself. No words, no song
Lighten the
moment. He is there as me,
And I to Him bound
fast. Where will this end –
I locked to Him in
my small finity?
Under time’s vault
there is no certainty,
No neat small
calculations to contain
The paths my God
will bid me walk with Him.
I only know He
carries all my pain.
Even those
stretched hands cannot measure out
The boundaries of
this vast, alien grace.
I only know that
all the love I yearn
Is here
configured, uttered in this place.
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