Lord, will those eyes become blinding? 

Will those hands become terrifying fire? 

Will that warm face become cosmic mystery again? 

We were ready to run away to new land

Our boats were rocking in the waves

Our nets were miraculous for catching fish

We have left behind the graves and those

scowling that we find some wives already. 

We were ready to take his hands and not 

shrink back at the gaping holes

To sit beside him once again beneath 

the trees he cursed in hunger pains

And hear his parables by the fire.

But instead he leaves us again. 

Rays of light shining around him 

Not yet a ghost, too real to be a ghost

And the clouds open like floodgates of legend

And the oceans and wilderness 

and gardens and cities of a new creation  

Peek through his open hands. 

But all we can see is the crease of his smile

The tangle of his hair, the sand on his feet

The cut of his robes, the scars on his skin 

the body we used to bump into, break 

bread with, lean against as we couldn’t help

but fall asleep that fateful night

he needed us the most. 

His eyes close as he embraces the sun. 

And though the awe will last us the rest of our lives

And though this holy spirit he speaks of breathes 

And though death has been so conquered 

that we would go to such adventures laughing—

For a second, we cannot help but want 

One more day. 


Ellen Huang (she/her) holds a BA in Writing + Theatre minor from Point Loma Nazarene University. She has pieces published in Apparition Lit, Amethyst Review, Moonchild Magazine, Diverging Magazine, South Broadway Ghost Society, Enchanted Conversation, and more. Much of her work is grounded in themes of progressive faith and platonic love. She also writes spiritual reflections on cinema at worrydollsandfloatinglights.wordpress.com

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