Finite

If only I understood—says I to myself—the mysteries of redemption. If only I really truly grasped the extravagance of love that leads to a bloody brow and striped back. If only I could see clearly in my mind’s eye what it looks like to have nails plunged through your hands and feet, to have your shame hoisted up for all the world to see. I think that maybe if I could feel some sensation of being that alone, and heavy, and broken, then I would be in love with the cross. Then I would understand how magnificent it was and go and sin no more.

But he takes my face in his hands and tells me tenderly, “I did this so you would never have to know what that feels like. I took YOUR torture, and endured YOUR shame. I took these wounds so that you would not have to die—so that you could have the luxury of having your breath taken away by crimson leaves and tea and the poetry of John Donne. I died to give you life in abundance and joy and freedom. Now be free! GO AND SIN NO MORE!”

What more do I need to understand?