HOLY WOUNDS (A SONNET)
The holy wounds Jesus of Nazareth
Bore in His head, His hands, His feet, His side,
Forgiveness finished full at His last breath;
The church begun when flowed the crimson tide.
There where the soul its solace sweet may find
In matching its poor wounds to those of Christ;
Thus raising earthly pain to holy kind
In linking lowly suff’ring to His price.
Now holy wounds we bear because of Him,
Redeemed from meaninglessness by our Lord,
Become for us our transformation’s hymn
And pow’r to minister in Christlike chord.
Thus wounds made holy give abundant grace
Compassionately this sad world to face.
by Kristen Sykes