Lying on my bed in agony

I see my Christ come to me,

Crawl toward me on hands and knees

From the corner of my bed;

Wraps me up in blankets and

in Himself,

Incubates my body in the searing

Heat of His Body & Heart.

Only our faces and feet are exposed;

He kisses the top of my head.

I know my sickness is of more than one form,

And I know that my body against Him

Hurts Him,

Pierces His Sacred Presence as venomously as a nail through His wrist.

Yet,

through it all, 

the more my nearness harms Him,

The more tenderly He speaks to me of Love,

The more gently He touches my face.

He is spiritually spread now,

As dead as the TonTon cut open to shelter the body of Skywalker,

Yet still breathing, still suffering,

Still passing each drop of DNA 

Slowly, painfully,

From He to Me;

A soul’s dialysis: This can’t be rushed.

He fills the dark hours of night

With words of Love for me;

My panicked impatience of knowing

I can’t heal faster

He silences with a “hush”

And the touch of His Mighty Right Hand.

He does not take away my pain –

Nor does He claim to –

He rather transforms it:

Fills the intervals with light and hope,

Moves the bodily overwhelm

Away from panic, loneliness

into something new;

I learn to relax

In the arms of He who Truly Loves me,

Learn to trust Him in the lean hours When there is literally 

No one else to hang on to. 

– Morgan Hart

12/16/2018