I trace the scars on your hands that never fully healed. I push back your hair and memorise the lines on your brow. Lifting your shirt I see the tree with forty branches on your back and the mark on your side that others have felt before me.
I don’t understand how you still bear these.
What is the wisdom that carries the scars of the old upon the new?
Who is this god that loves so deeply as to be forever wounded?
When we are finally restored, when all things are made new, will you also find your hands are healed? Will you then walk without limping and finally be able to straighten your back? Yes, it must be so. You will be made new alongside of us. Your tears too will be dried.