The architect that cast the earth and waters,
Philosopher that numbered, named the stars,
And He came down to spring us from death’s prison.
Like filth-caked beasts in blood-slicked abattoirs
He found His fallen-hearted sons and daughters.
The blameless hands that broke our jail’s bars
Have born death’s numbing bite — though He is risen —
Disfigurement that still His warm skin mars,
The laurels of His flesh now glorified.
Discolored marks on His shining complexion
Humble the handsomest features of ours.
With love, He has unseated even pride
And holds on to that perfect imperfection,
For on His throne, the Christ still has His scars.