my lent has been forty days
a month and a week or so
without the things i run to
when i want to run away
he spent 33 years away
from the glories of heaven
willing to be confined in flesh
limited for the sake of love
he was human, as i am human
but God, as i am never
not half and half, he
but fully and fully the two
the Word Incarnate:
the Word made words
who breathed and sang
slept and sorrowed
hungered, thirsted
ran, danced, laughed, wept —
he was real, touchable, woundable
but in everything perfect
completely obedient in humility
humbly obedient to death unimaginable
mangled like an animal
white bone peering through rented flesh
pinned as an object of revilement
even then he was in control
even then could blast
his rebukers and slay
his betrayer
but even then, obedient
he stayed, hanging, gasping
gazing fully upon the wrath
of God most glorious
the holy consuming fire
he who was perfect became
sin for us, he the blameless
the glorious, became
a curse, despised, rejected
smitten of God
but obedient to the point of death
he freely gave his life
the lamb under God’s knife.
in him i died, all of mine corrupted
transformed, translated
in him i live, all of his mine
all of me, his.
