#149 Jesus of the Scars (Edward Shillito)

Plough, una revista de gusto excelente, celebra al Ascensión con una homilía y un poema de Edward Shillito, un pastor protestante que vivió de cerca la primera guerra mundial.

Esta semana he estado doomscrolling—el mass shooting de Uvalde me ha afectado como ningún otro, especialmente por lo que parece una inexplicable reacción de la policía. Es el tipo de situaciones que sólo son tolerables frente a la cruz, de ahí el poema que ha traído Plough.

(via)

JESUS OF THE SCARS

If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;

Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;

We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow,

We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;

In all the universe we have no place.

Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?

Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.

If, when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,

Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;

We know today what wounds are, have no fear,

Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;

They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;

But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,

And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.