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
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
Pierces His Sacred Presence as venomously as a nail through His wrist.
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
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;
Like a loss of virginity (my worldly mind struggles to make up better similes):
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