These are the hands of a thirty-three year old
A tan that never quite fades.
These are the eyes, more dimensioned, more bordered by lines.
This is the hair, a bit of silver gleaming through, but only on the right side.
It always sounded so young to me, so young to die.
But now I know, I am old.
The way my memory stretches back amazes me.
That I can say, “ten years ago” or “fifteen.”
The things I have seen, the things I know;
Are more than I ever wanted to.
A kind of peace with age, a kind of wisdom
In the loss of possibilities.
Are these his hands, his eyes, his hair,
His memories, his sorrow, his strength?
Divinity in flesh, the apex of its aging?
Is this the age of the body of my Lord,
When he gave it for me?