The longer I watch him

the more I wonder
whether the Cross of Jesus
was not the only moment
our saving happened,
as if such cruelty could solve
an inevitable, deadly equation.
Perhaps it was only the
penultimate moment
to resurrection’s triumph—
though unheralded,
un-choired—
the sealing of
love’s new first word.
But even then it
would be hollow
without all those
other interruptions:
the divine impulse
making food blossom
in their hands
on a hillside,
a girl’s lifeless eyes
fluttering open,
Lazarus leaning into
the muffled announcement
that even time must step aside
for love’s insistent force.
The shape of all the saving—
all the loving—
required the alignment
of his arms.
He extended them
in one terrible
timeless moment
into which he gathered
all the other moments
and offers all of it
time after time
resisting confinement,
elusive as spirit,
expectant.
Constant.
Be still and see
there he goes again.