When he was raised, he bore the marks,
which must mean he remembered.
Then does each adulterous kiss make him wince at its betrayal;
each flash of the needle, of the knife make him flinch?
Does he recoil at the sound of gunfire?
Only God could reasonably endure
so many insults as this world hurls.
He bears the marks to remember,
to reassure that resurrection has not removed him
from us. He picks up the shards of our broken lives,
piece by piece transforming them into something new,
crazed and beautiful:
the glass in which he sees reflected his own
sweet injuries made whole.
