He did not speak of love in mere words,
soft syllables drifting like mist in the wind.
No—He walked it, wore it, bled it,
poured it out like wine too rich to hoard.

He touched lepers none would dare to see,
held children the world deemed too small.
He broke bread with the broken,
spoke life into silence,
called sinners by name, not by shame.

His hands, rough from a carpenter’s toil,
gathered the lost, lifted the weary.
His feet, dirt encrusted from unending mercy,
carried truth where lies had reigned.

And when words no longer sufficed,
when love could go no further in speech,
He stretched His arms on splintered beams
and let nails drive the message home—
This is love.

Not measured, not rationed,
not spoken yet withheld—
given, poured, spent
until the cup ran over.

Even then, when death took its claim,
when stone sealed love inside the grave,
Love rose, unshackled, unspent, unbound—
forever abundant, forever enough.
Go and do the same. Amen.