The Seamless
By Paul John Roach
Originally published in Grief is a Spiritual Practice, by Unity.org.
The ancients, when misfortune arose,
Or sacred codes were broken,
Tore their clothes in anguish.
With white fingers of blame,
They poured ashes on their hopelessness.
When Jesus died
The curtains of the Temple, it is said,
Were rent in two.
The sky darkened, the thunder roared
As if the elements felt disgust in that hour.
Yet, at the Master’s endgame
None of the crowd dared
To rend his seamless robe.
Craven, reductionary, yes,
Happy to scour the whipping ground,
Still, they recognized the garment’s worth
And drew lots to preserve the whole.
Death has its place,
Its dividing line
Between what is possible and what is not.
But the seamless is beyond a place and a time.
It is a shimmer of recognition
Amid bitterness.
Its calling card read, “With us.”
It whispers, “Always home.”