Gospel

His scars map
an uneasy life;
one child among many.
His cries,
lost in the cacophony
of those that came before,
trace his journey
to the other side.
A tightrope ahead,
death behind;
the courage to go on
in the depths of his eyes.
The scars a mute testimony.

The ink is a litany.
Down his arms, on his hands;
his lonely story
a gospel of pain.
Endured, lived and overcome
by those who walked
the razor with him
and lived;
however broken.

Each mark is scripture.
I read the verses by touch and
I pray for redemption;
as he cries in my arms.