Oh, little man, what know ye of our patience? Talk to us about times if you know I am the one who made it. Talk to us about pain as if you know I am the one who laid it all down for you at the crown of the place stripped of its flesh, the hill without a face to give you a foundation of mercy to carve into your hands, valleys for our grace. We can see that you’re hurting, suffocating in your tightly woven mask. It’s enough to keep you breathing, but not near enough to last if you keep asking all these questions. One of you will die of asphyxiation. You lead a double life and only do half the living.

We said to be like Christ you cannot be like the trinity of a single mind, yet thrice. You’ve not uncovered that mystery. Only we can be three and one without anything spilling where we do not absolutely intend it to be. So have you started reaching for the ties behind your head? Or do your fingers fumble scratching your eyes out instead? Have you learned nothing? Oh man, listen to what we’ve said. Trade your trying for trusting and let us do the rest. And just so you know, we intend to spill all over creation. But for some reason you are not making the connection that includes you. Which of our actions has ever lead you to believe our intentions are to exclude? What makes you think that we intend to do anything other than unmerited favor toward the entirety of your endeavors? Historically, when have we ever proved to be anything less than your forever, victorious savior? Was it the beginning when we made man in our likeness? Or on the ark of Noah where we saved you from the torrents? Perhaps it was when we promised the land of milk and honey or delivered you from your enemies and closed on them the sea. And you asked for your chains back; you have loved the new slavery. But no matter how much you nag, we will not place you on that tree. You cannot sacrifice your words and acts. You cannot convince us of your piety. You can be still. Relax. Let us sing to you our poetry. We can speak in the way you ask, but what would you hear more audibly?

Have you started reaching for the ties behind your head? Or do your fingers fumble scratching your eyes out instead? Have you learned nothing, oh man? Listen to what we’ve said. Trade your trying for trusting and let us do the rest. I will condescend my fingertip to graciously fold your hip. You have fought for long enough; I see your seams starting to rip. Let me cut the strings for you, strong stretching from the corners of your lips and separate the plastic wrap from your ears, cheek, nose, and chin. They will hurt at first, but trust me-your flesh must be stripped. Be ready with the oil and keep your lamp wick well-trimmed. Wait for the evening; I will send the second skin. Do not dispend thoroughly, but is not a match for the one who will undo all the damage that you did. You will take the hewn with open wounds and sew your folds back into him. Your tattered attempts to mend the holes will soon hold inside the hem of his robe made white by his life, red in his death. Whole at the moment I chose to resurrect and yours the second you accept that I want nothing less than the best for all my elect. I have the authority to command and the power to effect, the strength to defend, the compassion to protect. You work futility to its end and forsake the day of rest, but when you grow tired again I will be there to help you. I won’t forget.

(It’s your hands) It’s my hands that formed you out of the clay (that formed me from the mired clay)
(Those same hands) It’s my hands that will lavish you with love and loving grace (that are filled with loving grace)
(It’s your hands) My hands were held by nails to the tree (held by nails upon that tree)
(Those same hands) It’s my hands that will bring you back to me (that are reaching for me)