I know Him

A nun gave it to me, a faint smile tainting her lips calm.

“Keep writing,” is what she said, “use your gift.” The card was small, worn but not faded. Many hands had held it. One corner was bent as if the previous owner had clutched it in desperate prayer.

“I see the Resurrection for you.” That was what she said.

A scroll was in his hand. The king himself a writer of truths. Light ethereal behind him displays his regal shoulders. His face is calm, serene. The light of no single sun dances in the hair brushing his shoulders, and covering his chin. His mouth does not frown but no humor lights his serious features.

She smiled and clasped my hand, pressing the warm paper against the tired callous of my fingers. Her own hand is warm and smooth.

I stare at the card, trying to decipher its meaning.

His feet are bare, scars light against his ankles.

My thumb traces the aged crease in the card. What is it? What is it that draws me to it?

His robe is regal purple, drawn up on one shoulder. His hand is held in the position of the holy cross, like he had halted long before he could finish.

Age leaked from the card, wisdom as well.

I flip it over.

My eyes graze over the back of the card, my thumb absently tracing the mark of a pressed-on label.

Worn and thin, the stamped letters read; Mark 15:32

Let kind king be brought down from his death, which lie ominous beneath the veneer of trust within his eyes

Let us all see and believe, thus that which was once gone away from us could again be arisen

My feet tread beneath me as if there was no where to go at all; motion for sake of motion alone.

His hair is long, slicked back over one shoulder. Careless and tossed in a new born breeze

But His eyes.

His eyes watch me.

His eyes know me.

Through those eyes He loves me.

I know this man.

I know him.