Scars

Initially posted Aug 27, 2008

Scars do heal but long after the searing pain, it leaves its perpetual mark.
Wounded once, the wounds heal.
And again.
And again the wounds heal.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Yes, wounds heal.
Yet together, the scars trace the imprint of the kiss of pain.
The cuts are the staves for a bitter song,
the blood, the notes of a dissonant symphony.

One heals.
One moves on.
But one does not remain untouched.
Every scar,
Every blow,
Every scourge,
Every mark left by the pressing of Love's scathing lips
kills a little part of one's self.
the kill is slow.
the march of the execution is paced.
Larghissimo.

Why do you boast your wounds, O Christ?
Why, enthroned in heavenly glory, are your scars the rubies of your victory?
Pain is your kiss.
The Cross is your embrace.
Why is the bitter cup the price of love?
Why is your Way a rendezvous with lady pain?

The winds pick up the silent cry and echo it into eternity
Eternity which emptied itself
lying
crawling on the ground like a worm
crushed under the gibbet
staring at me eye to eye
heart to heart
alone with the alone
emptied with the empty
He who cursed loneliness
has blessed my solitude
with his embrace

All else surround,
peering but not entering
the heart remains a garden enclosed
wrapped by the black of night
watched by the moon awaiting Sabbath rest

wrestling,
praying,
groaning...

anticipating
eagerly hoping
watching
its lamp almost drained of oil...

waiting
waiting
waiting...

unlamented
save his own tears
scarred by a searing emptiness...


In soledad vivia,
y en soldedad ha puesto ya su nido
y en soledad la guia
a solas so querido
tambien en soledad de amore herido

She lived in solitude,
and now in solitude has built her nest;
and in solitude he guides her,
he alone, who also bears
in solitude the wound of love.
(The Spiritual Canticle, St. John of the Cross)