Poemetry: Thankful Scars

Most scars cannot be seen,

lurking beneath the skin,

but those of an olive sheen

are the kind that make me grin.

 Thankful I am for those holy welts,

sacred scars, that notch your arm,

counting each conquered harm

and each sinister sorrow felt.

Each stripe is a masterstroke

sketching what might not have been,

waking what might not have woke,

on the canvas with swiping pen;

each streak is broken bread

and communion wine

pointing to the Cross’ stead

and sufferings divine.

You live — you live! — and thanks

is only a thanks half-parted

for a life restored to the ranks

of the faithful-not-departed.

No thanks shall ever suffice

for your life, seized from death:

the thanks deserved would cease my breath

so I offer thanks to God but twice.

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