the water turned to wine
at the pleas of the mother,
duty and love bringing power forth.
the whip, cleansing the temple,
the rage at defiled holiness,
and the tempest of love making it clean.
the mud, dripping off of the no-longer-blind man’s eyes,
the tender mercies of love,
the healing of his touch.
the tears shed over Lazarus,
the sorrow of a life gone for now,
only tempered by dreams of eternity.
the laughs of the children
He always suffers to come unto Him,
however busy the world gets.
the nails, painful reminders of the evil
in the hearts of the friends and enemies
who He was pierced to save.
the blood that dripped from the cross,
collecting on the earth it was shed to save,
as the parched voice cries for mercy.
the empty tomb, wept over
when you just want some small solace among the heartache
but even that seems gone.
the scars graven eternally onto perfect hands,
proof of just how deep