Poetry

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Hypostasis
(The Binding of Being)

He did not wear divinity like a garment loosely tied,
nor sip mortality as a passing cup of suffering.

He became— not half, not blend, but mystery entire:
God in bone, Eternal in the syntax of time.

Not masked, but manifested, not veiled,
but vivid— He bore the syllables of man
and wrote Himself between their vowels.

Even the angels looked on with unwinged awe—
not that He condescended, but that He stayed,
not gleaming in cloud, but sweating in Gethsemane.

This is the paradox we hymn: not contradiction,
but communion— not separation, but Person woven
through flesh like breath through psalm.




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