Mercy

You rose, O Christ, creation's brightest morn,
but still you show the marks where you were torn.
On us who wound you still as we did then,
breathe peace again.

On Thomas, smarting raw with newfound grief,
who could not bear the burden of belief,
when he cries out at last, “My Lord and God!”
show him your heart.

And Mary, who your messenger became,
was blind to you until you called her name.
She clutched at you: Her frightened grasp release
and give her peace.

Then Peter, too, who knew himself afraid
but when the cockerel crowed three times, “Betrayed!”
whose courage died, as it lived, by the sword:
Have mercy, Lord.

And even—in your mercy's farthest scope—
on him who dangled from a desperate rope,
poor Judas, come to greet you with a kiss:
Forgive him this.

For none of us can love you as we should;
for all of us, your grief turns to our good.
On us who take our comfort in your wounds, 
have mercy, too.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio, c. 1602 – Downloaded from Google Arts & Culture using dezoomify-rshttps://artsandculture.google.com/asset/der-ungl%C3%A4ubige-thomas-michelangelo-merisi-named-caravaggio/OAEjjQkNdRL9sg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=120649550

Showing

Amid our doubt and fear,
our loss of hope and trust,
amid our sorrows, you appear
and breathe your peace on us.

But we cannot receive
the peace that you would give
until somehow we can believe.
Lord, show us that you live!

For we have seen you die,
and death we know too well,
but if the dead can truly rise,
then raise us like yourself!

Give back the hope we lost,
as we lost Eden's dream:
not earthly hope, but hope transformed,
and every loss redeemed.

And you give us this grace,
untroubled by our tears.
You come to meet us face to face,
to calm us in our fears:

the breaking of the bread,
the showing of your wounds,
the feeling of your hands and breath,
and our lives are made new.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio (1601–02) – http://www.christusrex.org/www2/art/images/carav10.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6804893

Love Marked Out

Thomas, called Didymus, one of the Twelve,
was not with them when Jesus came.
So the other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.”
But he said to them,
“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands
and put my finger into the nailmarks
and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”
John 20:19-31

When I look through weeping eyes, Lord,
aching for the light of day;
when I seek and cannot find you
in the shadows of the grave;
when I cannot recognize you,
Teacher, call again my name.

When I turn back to my old ways,
daunted in the face of dread,
wandering confusion's mazes,
tell me what the truth has said.
Come with me to my Emmaus:
Savior, stay and break the bread.

When all that my heart remembers
is your silence in the tomb;
sorrow drowns the burning embers
kindled in the upper room;
show me death was not the ending:
Lord and God, show me your wounds.

When my faith has failed to know you,
when I have to walk by sight,
call my name and bless the broken;
let me reach to touch your side.
Jesus, in your mercy, show me
love marked out for humankind.

Eglise du Saint-Sauveur, transept nord : l’incrédulité de Thomas. Photo By Cyr Manuel Evgenikos – Réunion des Musées Nationaux, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15154497

See

I know you're not among the dead,
the graves baptized with tears,
for you have risen as you said—
but still I want you here.

I cannot see you in the dawn,
the new-sprung blades of grass:
They bloom and wither and are gone;
as quick as breath they pass.

The songs of birds are not your song,
as sweetly as they sing.
They're silent when the night is long,
but your notes ever ring.

No, I can't hear you in the night
or see you in the day.
I walk by faith and not by sight,
but weary is the way.

Show me, O Lord, your hands and side,
and tell me by my name
there is a place for me inside,
untouched by any shame.

Yes, blest are those who have not seen—
But I still want to see.
And blest are they that can believe.
Lord, help my unbelief.

Doubting Thomas – Google Art Project By Unknown – illuminator – hgFUz6bXaLmUQQ at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22185693

And Spoke With Love

For Easter season (and today, Divine Mercy Sunday), to the tune LAND OF REST (“I Come With Joy To Meet My Lord”):

We turned from you, O living Lord,
and lost ourselves instead,
yet if you will but say the word,
we, too, rise from the dead.

Though Peter his own faith denied
and wept to feel his shame,
you asked him for his love three times
and spoke with love his name.

Though Thomas spurned what he was told,
you blessed him all the same:
your wounded hands to him you showed
and spoke with love his name.

Though Mary could not recognize
the one she'd come to claim,
you opened up her tearful eyes
and spoke with love her name.

Then speak our names, O living Lord,
and call us from our death.
Created by the spoken word,
we rise upon your breath.

Thomas

I would not know you, Lord, without your wounds.
If you had risen with your skin made new,
without the marks of all that you went through,
you would not be the teacher that I knew.

And will you let me touch your hands and side,
the holes where nails were driven as you cried,
the place the spearpoint opened you up wide?
And does it hurt, remembering how you died?

I have my own wounds, weeping here with yours;
I have my pain, a lifetime full of scars.
And now I see you stand here, bruised and sore--
Oh, touch my wounds, for they were always ours.

Oh, touch my wounds, as you let me touch yours.
Be with me in my pain forevermore.
And when you come again, have mercy, Lord,
on me and all the weary, wounded world.

Breathe

He breathed on them and said to them,
“Receive the Holy Spirit.”
John 20:22

The wind that on the waters moved
stirs now across our drying tears.
The bloodied hands of him we loved
reach out to hold us in our fears.

Our breath in short and ragged gasps,
our sobbing sorrow, grieving awe,
meets his as in the air they pass.
Our hearts to his, his to ours, draws.

The sigh of peace breathed over us,
the hot and misting, living breath:
a promise spread to cover us
and bear us through the vale of death.

As we inhale the savior's air,
the spirit steals into our lungs:
the ordinary breath we share,
communion on our lips and tongues.

Breathe in the living, breathing Lord;
breathe out on every breath his name:
each breath a letter of the Word,
each pulse the seal upon his claim.