Incarnation // (a word vomit)

Your hands are strong and rough.
I can imagine.
Your hand on top of mine, on my shoulder, or steadying me as we walk.
They give me bread that is soft and wine that is thin and lukewarm,
body, blood, soul, divinity.
Still I look at Your hands and can think of the calluses,
blood that grows hot when you see the way they treat Your Father's house.
The crease lines in Your face as You smile.
As You smile at me.
Whenever I forget You, when I search for You in concepts and proof,
I lose sight of You,
with Your rough hands and bright smile and sad eyes.
You have always been most of all
Present to me,
enshrined in gold in the little chapel off of St. Joe's.
Jesus, You walk so close to me,
Your scent sticks to me,
rubs off on my clothes.
The Church that is built on top of Your Heart is beautiful,
yet, You prove yourself ever more beautiful,
majestic beyond St. Peter's and Notre Dame.
Jesus, my Jesus.
How can I claim You as mine?
I barely touch Your hem,
and You know my heart.
My body


I love You, Incarnate Word.


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