The busy throngs don’t cease to ebb
And flow around my stick lodged deep
In murky mud. I’m stuck I know,
And how I long to move again,
Once more set free to ebb and flow
As they so freely do, and yet,
There doesn’t seem to be a soul
Aware that I’m not here by choice,
That I don’t want to sink in mire,
That I would just as soon fall down,
Be trampled, never more to rise,
Than stay stuck here a moment more.
They bump me as they pass, and some
With smiles, some even with looks
Of understanding, dare I say
Compassion, seem to have a clue,
And yet they hurry by, can’t stop.
There’s pressing business on ahead,
And stuck sticks don’t fit in their plans.
“Aren’t they the body for whom you
Drew near and put on flesh and lived
And died, my Lord?” I cry, my eye
Fixed heavenward. “Aren’t they to be
Your hands that rest upon the backs
Of those who weep with so much grief
They tremble, they your feet that run
When sinking souls cry out, your ears
That hear the brokenhearted sigh,
Your love made tangible in flesh
And blood we still can touch today?
Would you walk by me, precious Lord?
Then why do they, your body, walk
On by? I thought you were their head!”
With fear I near conclude that you
Have also passed me up, perhaps
Because of some yet unknown sin
Down deep inside that you despise,
Or maybe there’s another more
Holy and worthy of your time,
Upon whom you have set your love,
And my cries simply no more reach
Your throne, my tears no longer kept
In heaven’s bottles, counted, saved.
I’ve bored you, worn your patience down
To holes to big to patch, and reached
The end of grace in which I stood.
And then, without a word, he points.
My Father points to him, the Christ,
My older brother. “See him, my
Belovèd Son, a stick as stuck
As you for all his life until
Those surging in the ebb and flow
Around him killed him. No one saw,
Until he’d risen, all that he,
The Prince of Glory, down upon
The earth did suffer all alone.
You’re following in footsteps he
Set down to ease your path, so walk
With confidence that even now
He walks the path of loneliness
With you, his younger brother, loved
And chosen as his own before
The world began at his command.”
His voice then ceases. I’m left dumb-
Struck. How am I to follow him
If he’s no more than floating head,
His body not in touch with his
Direction? Yet, that seems to be the call.
I know that should relieve my grief.
Perhaps I don’t have eyes to see.
In silence I reach skyward.
Though flesh, his flesh, may fail me here,
Yet he remains my solid hope,
My portion now and forever.
When His Body Fails
