A poem.

Endurance

It is night, and in the still lamplight
I fit my fingers to the smooth indented
Splatters of plastering on the wall;
They fit like cups, some of them, while others
are rough and knobbled to my round fingertip.

...The sheets are damp with my sweat, the sweat
Of merely lying here in a summer night...

Like Thomas touching the Glorious Scars, I fear to ask
For revelation, for comfort, but dare not refuse the offer;
My body still rings with Hosannas -- oh, save! save! --
My throat still swells with Gethsemane desperation --
It is still the Sabbath of loss. I have lost:

(He confused all their schemes)

Lying on my bier of a bed I count my own scars. I press
My fingertips to the wall and

(Plowmen have plowed my back, and made their furrows long)

weep.

I am told that my scars too will be glorious. The more ignominy,
The more honor -- the more my own doing, the more brightly redeemed.

I say, Until I touch them, I will not believe it.
Meanwhile, I keep the company of the saints,

Just in case.