Incarnation

This is about the flesh.

Not a distant deity, whispered prayers thrown

high and hoping for an echo, no.

God wrapped in the same skin we tear on nails,

the aches we soothe with long baths.

God is not just a hazy wisp of holiness.

The hymn is a heartbeat, spirit hums in the pulse of blood

crashing through our temples—

there's divinity in the touch, the taste of bread,

a sip of wine turned crimson deep as marrow.

People cringe, say,

"This is closeness that feels too raw,

too intimate, an umbrella of sovereignty

over my muscles, my bones down to the breathing of my cells."

Yes, imagine a presence nestled in our laughter,

dancing through our love, divine fingerprints

on everything from desks to bedsheets.

He is asking, no—longing,

to inhabit each moment we thought was only ours.

The sacred in the soccer game,

the holy in the hug,

the whisper of eternity in every mundane step we take.