Another John Blaze posting and most appropriate with Easter approaching.
Most nights Jesus rubs his wrists after the world
has laid itself down to sleep. There they are – the scars.
As on earth, so still in heaven. The passage of
time does not obscure them. The memory of their
occurrence never leaves the hands.
Some nights the remembrance is dull, almost sour.
But most are vivid, when to place his finger on
the rind of pain is to be suddenly and at once back
there as nails and men did what they did. His memory
now is more emotional than knowledge.
Upon his return the scars created an impedance in
heaven, like radio static. God was clear This is my son,
I am well pleased. But Christ’s wounds keep him
forever alien, not fully home, not fully prodigal. He reigns
pulled in two directions, between thieves.