Latest afternoon, earliest of evening, the last slipping light of winter threads in the shop window, and we wear it like a medal around our necks, gold glory.
He’s greasing fittings on tractors, the Ford, the Case International, and I’m just there. We share space and light and time with no words.
I watch his hands, thick and immense. He’s oil stained. A man becomes his work and his work becomes him.
When he bends his thumb, pumping grease gun, I see it clearly: arching crescent moon from a dark day, a half crown, his permanent garland to searing pain.
Wounds, sins, hurts, these are our birthmarks, the white cicatrices we wear labeling us product of fallen earth.
In the black of our pain, we meet God, show our skins, and know we’ve met kin.
He too wears scars.
Lord, what other god but You, pierced through and blood-stained, wears the mark of our hurts? You claim us and we cling.
Jesus of the Scars
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow;
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.
The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars we claim Thy grace.
If when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know today what wounds are; have no fear;
Show us Thy Scars; we know the countersign.
The other gods were strong, but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.
Edward Shillito (1872-1948)
Photo: Thanks be to Father for healing the severed tendons in Farmer Husband’s thumb. Thank you for your prayers… It’s good to be kin with you.
HT: Kind Shannon
