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.