Resurrection

(for my father)

What do you do
when your body turns traitor
and your cells have lost their way,
when the functions you used to find so easy
now leave you spent of everything
but the weight of your despair?

Some say hope is what comes after death,
the spirit cleaved from body,
flying swiftly upwards to float
in some vague ephemeral bliss.

Nice, I suppose.

But still, it does not answer
all the longing that we have
to shape things with our hands,
to sway to the music,
to feast on fine food,
to hold the ones we love
and feel their warmth
so close against us.

We don’t want our bodies gone,
but back again.
We want to look upon
our whole selves—
blood pumping,
sinews stretching,
bones solid—
in joyful wonder,
echoing, “it is good.”

God of all creation,
arms pinioned helplessly,
body broken in death,
blood flowing out
in the ultimate going awry,
then buried,
a corpse of dust enshrouded,
then rising up forever,
divine spirit in true body,
whole and glorified.

Therein lies the answer,
therein lies the hope.
When we tremble with our frailties,
resurrection is the key—

hope lies in the body
God raises for eternity.