I do not know this man in the stained glass.
His robe is clean, he smiles serenely,
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).