“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,
and put my finger in the mark of the nails
and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
Don’t look for resurrection in the happy places,
the rescued-at-the-last-minute places,
the unexpected successes.
No, look in the wounded places,
where death was not delayed,
suffering not averted,
that reek of the grave,
bear the stab wounds of abject failure,
the rotting dust of powerlessness.
Unless you see the marks it’s a near miss.
Not until the loss is irreversible
is it overturned.
Go ahead, touch the wounds,
hold the shaking body,
dry the tears. Wait the wait.
Only the actual grave, or actual
graveside, admits the light,
yields to resurrection—
no mere recovery, but life
full and miraculous granted
out of utter impossibility.
Reach for the wound, Thomas,
the abyss of God, where the Mystery speaks
“Let there be light.”