The hollow of the hand of God
is webbed with the world’s story-
the lace of pain, the lines of love-
scooped by ages of hospitable grace,
pulsing with the cosmic blood
of the truest heart.
Safe and snug,
loved and learning love,
is the child
who rests there,
a being repossessed of innocent trust,
infinitely, infallibly,
cradled.
That is not quite what the good book says-
it makes a keener claim,
the more bold since spoken by Isaiah’s God-
the actual speech of the actual God-
not resting in the hollow of the hand
the child
but carved,
incised as inseparable,
cut into the flesh and blood,
deep as bone,
one.
