She asked which you were, the birth or the death, and I thought it strange, because you were both and neither: It was your raw palms that took a Sunday morning, a few nails and the splinters of your sacrifice and united Bethlehem and Golgotha. Advertisements
He birthed the world, His lungs scattering dust the way trees scatter light in the forest. The stars burned in His palms, the galaxies trailed behind His fingertips, but He chose the smallest image bearer to carry His grace: dust, rib, breath. it was good.