Nobody can convince me otherwise,
I know what it feels like to be made hole.
Ravaged me from the inside out,
Endless days smeared into unending nights,
Time past, time in the future, all meant nothing.
I only knew of the present,
And that gift was consistently leaking.
I was broken cistern.
But blood and not water poured.
So I know exactly what it feels like to be made whole.
Potter’s will.
That all men be saved and come to the knowledge of He who hangs planets on nothing.
Who hanged on wood for nothing,
Not Glory, not a fee, not to make little toys on a playset of he.
For nothing, but me.
But you.
For when He saw me sprawled like filthy linen on dirty floor.
Shaky hands trampled upon by eager legs.
Reaching, stretching, trying to be good enough.
Trying to meet the mark. Perfection seemed always just.
Within rich but condemned to be poor
Maybe I’ll one day become. Servant.
Looked upon.
Fed by those almighty crumbs.
That was when this son of a gun shut me up, and said I was good enough.
He saw me and then He bled.
Tasting death in my stead.
It was then I realized that He never even saw me
But He looked upon Himself instead.
For all He did was become me,
Sickly held in place by nails.
Dangling lifeless. Dangling.
Lifeless.
Heaving my last breath.
He reached for me.
One sacrifice that thickened the plot.
For when the hem of His garment felt for my hands,
It ceased.
Goats, rams, doves, pigeons.
And every other issue of blood.
ucTRUTH
©2026
Christ a poet 