The risen Christ
    remains a wounded Christ,
emerging from the tomb
    as something other—
not a human as we know humans–
    able to appear/disappear at will,
to walk through closed doors,
    to be hidden even though present,
to be present even though hidden.

But in it all,
    Christ remains wounded,
a gaping gash in his side,
    hands and feet with holes
into which you can stick your fingers,
    a ring of piercings across his forehead and scalp.

This is our reality.
    We'd hoped for a resurrection
that closed the holes,
    healed the gashes,
resulted in a pure, smooth, strong body,
    but this, instead, is what we get–
a wounded, risen Christ.

Why, in my life,
    would I ever expect
to escape my own bleeding brokenness?

Text and image © 2020 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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