Painting Jesus

When told to configure who He is,
what His face looks like, sketches

of artists came to mind: a baby
born, little hands, soft brown

skin stranger than hay. A boy
with feet never lost, in His temples

wisdom as fluid as water, made wine
or made calm, healing the thirst

of mankind. Or a man with flowing
hair, bearded, brown eyes, skin

creased like white cloth He wore,
glowing, illuminating life by these lines

of light. Or from death, darkness drawn
around his eyes, the blackened blood

dried between thorns and forehead, skin
as brown and thin as the wooden cross

that He carried. The whole world
witnessed the ways this man were

made holy beyond the colors caught
by the eyes. But what appears to be

not captured by images are those
prophets proclaimed; saints spoke

lines after lines of fire, coming down
from heaven, or lines after lines

of air, where He ascended. I am left
to draw the Word where He has the right

to be fully drawn yet fully deliberate,
to be experienced and expressed,

to be everywhere forever, and to be.


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