Kissing the cross,
O precious cross,
it blisters the lips
like the hot coal
held to Isaiah.
O holy cross,
there is a body on it
with a deep wound
the wound dealt by the world
to the hopes of God.
O beautiful God
unrecognizable
who could not let us be
in our blind man’s bluff
our cruel humors
O spent flesh
that took on ours,
O banked fire
beyond extinguishing,
brand me.
This article appears in March 25 2013.
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