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nailed hand and foot to the wood of the Cross,
punctured by a lance,
pierced by a circlet of harsh thorns,
left to die for lack of water,
stripped of a robe that would not be rent
but gambled for by enemies,
but of which not a bone was broken,
so are we, His suffering body,
His church.
Like that body lying in the rich man’s virgin tomb,
cold and dark,
waiting to be embalmed by precious oils
that were never to be,
sealed away from the land of the living
by a seemingly immovable stone,
so are we, His body dead to the world,
hidden from its eyes,
buried like seed scattered on good soil,
dying in order to live.
Like the risen body of Christ,
still marked by the sign of the nails in hands and feet,
still bearing the gash in which unnumbered souls
find new birth
and release from the curse,
unrecognizable to its enemies
except by their astonishment and dread,
seen by all eyes from farthest east to farthest west,
so are we, when He comes again.
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