Special Touches of Christ

What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands. The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk. Invisible beings painted in, sentries stand by, awaiting his slightest command. The diablos stands by too, mocking each mark of Jesus’ path, for he holds on tight to the wretched and weak beings, the easily tempted, the hungry beggars, the lame, suffering and sick. The scorch of Christ’s touch, as he heals Adams and Eves, the liar does not like this, not one little bit. The release of light into their eyes, the clearing of their consciences, bitterness fleeing, wounds sealed up as if they never existed. The howling of a wanderer in this cursed earth. He recalls those gentle eyes, those wise words, the beauty of the garden. The horn’d reject can only wind around weeds, thorns, hollowed branches - something that would make mankind’s skin crawl. Christ’s see-through hands, reach out and touch, lepers and lowly woman bereft of freedom. When his mouth moves the inner universe of each soul either erupts or folds. The son’s magnificent eyes made of gold, shine as the Father of lights. Holy Spirit comfort radiates the passion of warmth and O when he weeps, the impression of Rembrandt’s plates sear. Multitudes of destitute and growling tummies follow his beat. When he speaks of eating his flesh and drinking his blood the murmuring crowd, much like the Israelites in the desert, turn their backs, with no understanding of the Mannah’s lips. The dozen choose him. Who else shall we go to. We know you. Although one is a plant, a weed himself. Should we feel sorry for the gold digger? He oft shakes the communal bag, opens and sifts it like sand, retrieving a couple grains. If he only knew the cost. O the cost! Did he steal the tithe? The ten percent would be like quicksand. The devil would leave him hanging. What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands. The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk. Christ’s frame humble and confident, his mission to save. 2/1/2021