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 resurrections’ 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.