Ages
I guess I am an old man, now. At least, I rather feel it. I feel... not age. not creaky joints. not time.
I feel the pain and glory of the cumulative wounds that Christ will never heal. The wounds the most like the wounds that are even still today on His wrists/hands and in His side. These are the wounds He received while in the house of His friends. These are the wounds He received when He was caring for His children. These are the wounds he received willingly for Love. For His love for His creation for His glory and for His love. It all folds in on itself upon the utterance of the word love, and it becomes this blinding singularity of complete and utter Otherness.
Of these wounds there never is healing, because He chooses to wear them as marks of Glory, as marks of His Name, as marks of His love. As if he needed reminding, yet they remind Him still. And us they remind as well.
And here I am, waxing poetic for the little pinprick in my own side. But it is real. It is real, because it will not heal. Not with any Art of light, only the mind-obliterating call of sin and entertainment.