Poetry

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Flesh of Light
(Kenotic Radiance)

What torch burns in shadow
yet casts no silhouette?

The Body of Light,
wrapped in skin’s frailty,
not dimmed but distilled.

He wept not to show weakness,
but to baptise sorrow.
He hungered to hallow our hunger.

Light did not shatter to enter clay—
it condensed, chose finitude as form.

The womb became lantern,
the cross a lampstand,
the tomb— a burst of brilliance
turned inside-out.

He rose not from ash,
but from every particle He once called good,
proving even decay could be transfigured.

Thus, we kneel— not before a myth,
but a metabolism of mercy.






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