The Word was not a sound
but the stillness before sound
not speech
but the meaning that gives speech weight
not thought
but the source from which all thoughts emerge
He was before breath
and yet He breathed

Flesh
not symbol nor shadow
but matter which bruises
cells that hunger
bones that break
He entered the ribcage of creation
and let His heart beat there

He did not hover
He dwelt
pitched His tent in time
among the fragile and the fading
laughter, sweat, sleep
the splinter in the hand
the ache behind the eyes
He knew it all
by choice

And we
unready
unsure
beheld glory
not the blinding sort that burns the gaze
but the slow-rising fire of love
glory in a voice that asked
“Where are you?”
and waited
glory in tears not wiped away
but shared

Full of grace
not half
not offered with conditions
but poured out like oil
without measure
and truth
not sharp
not cold
but the kind that holds your face
and names you with light

This is the mystery
the infinite worn like skin
the holy not visiting
but remaining
until dust remembers
it was always meant
for glory

–based on John 1:14