Baptism

I do not know this man in the stained glass.

His robe is clean, he smiles serenely,

and

I do not recognize those wounds.

Those are not wounds that say ‘it is finished;’

that clean-shaven image with its miniscule scars is a portrait

that underestimates the darkness of Friday

and misses the importance of Sunday morning.

The One I met is more than your Sunday school paintings, and

the wounds which I recognize are deep and jagged,

the kind wide enough to drown in

(though you, I think, call it baptism).

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