Not a ghost of a king
but a carpenter with dust beneath his fingernails
and the smell of cedar on his skin
He walked where the roads were jagged
to the edge of the water where the outcasts stood
calling them by their secret holy names
He did not carry a sword
but words that cut through the noise
heavy with mercy
light with the promise of rest
His hands
which once shaped wood into cradles
were stretched wide against the grain of a different timber
A silence fell over the hill
but it was a silence that breathed
a waiting that did not end in the dark
On the third morning
the stone did not just move
it gave up
And now
He is the light that catches the dust in the air
the voice that answers when there is no one left to call
the anchor that holds when the ocean is roaring
A shepherd who never stopped looking
A savior who never stopped staying

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