The Marks of Love

Upon a mountain veiled in prayer,
Where silence braided earth and air,
He knelt beneath the burning sky—
No eye to see, no soul nearby.

The wind held breath, the cedars swayed,
As heaven’s fire broke through the shade.
A Seraph came, in sorrow dressed,
With wings outspread and pierced chest.

No sword, no flame, no earthly blow—
But love struck deep, and made it so.
His hands, his feet, his heart did bloom
With wounds that echoed cross and tomb.

Not punishment, nor prideful sign,
But gift from realms of the divine.
He bore the pain with humbled grace,
As tears like rivers streaked his face.

O mystery the world debates:
A soul so pure the wound creates.
No martyr’s pyre, no warrior’s scar,
Just silent fire from realms afar.

He hid them first, those bleeding hands,
Ashamed of what no mind understands.
Yet through the ache, a joy would rise—
A joining love that never dies.

The stigmata—Christ’s kiss in flame,
Not given for glory, nor granted for fame.
But shared with one whose life was spent
In perfect love, in sweet descent.

And so he walks, that wounded saint,
With bleeding steps yet soul so faint,
Till all our hearts can understand—
God’s wounds can bloom in human hands.