Spring in the garden edge, a periwinkle maze—O Lord of spill and swell. I will not disappoint you now, he says; I’ve honed your cell’s repairs. The human ware is slippery in our hands; an ankletwists, breaks on a granite ledge; jointfailure of a stone and heel, the puddled stairs . . .And so, God digs into his resurrection—a funny rib and tooth, a good and solid shoulder: the hidden measure of largesse.Imagine, in a yard, another bone to spare; imagine—long and grassy. For grasses err in favorof excess . . . Ah, isn’t that the Word, excess? Not just repaired: pampered, festooned, unspent. A risen body, Lord, our flesh has never dreamt.
The Century's work relies primarily on subscriptions and donations. Thank you for supporting nonprofit journalism.
Support us by buying books: