It is not enough for him to die.
It is not enough for him to offer up
his pain, to offer us his wincing scars:
touch my hand;
my open, scored side;
trace the welts and weals of the thorns
that crowned my head.
It is not enough for him to suffer,
to shoulder all the world’s sorrows.
The grave is not sufficient ransom.
Death can never be our satisfaction.
It is not to wash his wounds
that Thomas falls at his feet.
It is not to mourn, but to worship one
who has more than his pain to offer us.
He comes in peace.
He comes with impossible, indelible life.
He comes back, just for us and Thomas;
he comes with unquenchable love.