Your fingers trace
featherlight
over the contours of my body,
as though You’re poring over
a relief map of my being–
each curve and scar
telling a different story
to Your knowing hands.
Your eyes, too,
roam this living terrain
as You bend to Your
self-appointed task,
unblinking, intent–
but so soft,
so wondering,
as though this is
the first time You’ve ever
seen me, or touched me,
in all Your long life.
And so I wonder,
watching the awe
blossom on Your face
as You explore this
eternally new territory:
Which of us
is truly the worshiper?

10 months ago  /  8 notes