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.