Most scars cannot be seen, veiled but a while,
but those gracing your skin grace me with a smile
Thankful I am for those sacred scars,
that notch your arm, counting each conquered harm.
Each stripe, broken bread and communion wine,
remembrances of sufferings divine.
You live — you live! — and thanks is a thanks in part
for no thanks can fully empty my heart;
thousands of thanks would never suffice
so I will thank God for each scar but twice.
This is a reworking of yesterday’s poem. I’m not sure which I prefer. This one seems more clear and follows a much more rigid meter; yesterday’s seems more emotional and raw. Maybe the third time will be the charm?