A Veil So Thin

Your Mother cradling Your body, as she has done all of Your days — except this time, You are lifeless.

Michelangelo intentionally shrouded Mary’s hands in his Pietá, depicting the sacredness of Christ’s body,
despite being beaten and broken, mocked and killed.

Spit upon, stripped, torn open.
Blasphemed, accused, forsaken.

But she has the eyes to see the Truth,
This broken body: Holy, Holy, Holy.

His own Mother — even in her purity — still draped with the veil between Heaven and Earth.

All whilst the Son of God is in her arms?

How could He ever be closer?

And now I beg the question,
Post-Resurrection,
Post-Torn-Veil,
Post-Single-Greatest-Moment-In-Salvation-History,

Who am I that the Lord of my life would let ME hold Him?

Does He not know that my touch could taint Him?

That my leprosy could infect Him?

That my sin could mar His sanctity?

That my wounds would bleed onto Him?

How can it be?

The holiest body ever to exist,
Choosing to be received into my arms, and the arms of so many people.

Into the womb of Mary,
Onto the back of Joseph,
Into the hands of Simeon,
Grabbed by the bleeding woman,
Embraced by John,
Held by Veronica,
Poked by Thomas,

And now, He finds himself in the palm of my broken hands time and time again,

But it is so,
For God so loved the world,
And He always will.