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We cling to painted faces,
golden frames hung in dusty cathedrals,
as though divinity could be held
in the corners of our vision.
But He is not there—
not in the picture books,
not in the quiet safety
of our small, wooden prayers.
.
The Christ we often hold tight
is smooth, unbroken.
An icon we polish,
a memory we tame.
But the nails still pierce—
and His body bleeds still,
splinters of the cross
wedged deep into the world.
.
Throw away this fragile Jesus,
the one who fits neatly
into your Sunday thoughts.
Burn the paper versions
where the flesh is missing,
where the Spirit is caged.
.
Let Him rise instead,
raw and alive,
both flame and ash,
both wound and healer.
.
He is the hand that breaks bread
and the hand that shatters the table.
The eternal whisper
and the shout that splits mountains.
The Christ who weeps in alleys
and dances in burning fields.
Do you dare to see Him there?
.
This is the God who breathes fire
and water,
who is both lamb and lion,
both silence and song.
To worship Him is not to hold,
but to be held,
to break your grip
and let His blood
run into your veins.
.
Throw away the idols.
Let the living Christ come—
not soft, but real.
Not still, but moving.
Not distant, but here,
flesh and Spirit,
touching the ground
we fall upon.
.
"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation."—Colossians 1:15

© R Gordon Zyne

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