They came into the garden
on that darkest of nights,
with torches flaring, swords bared,
to take like a thief Christ Jesus, Son of God.
Who could blame Peter for drawing,
against the atrocity, his sword of outrage—
for smiting the high priest's servant,
taking off his ear?
But the Master, with legions of angels at his command,
gave himself up to his accusers.
Saying “Suffer ye thus far,”
Luke 22:51
he touched Malchus's ear and healed it.
Which pierced Malchus more deeply—
the fierce, familiar weaponry of mortals?
or the holy, healing touch of one
whose immortality no weapon could destroy?
Which stirred within him more profoundly—
common mortal malice?
or the purer self it veiled
when he felt that Christly touch?
In my own dark nights, when betrayal or disdain assails,
let me recall that healing touch,
which even beneath the mortal veil
could find a child of God.
Let me, too, bring to my accusers
not the blade of anger or revenge,
but the sweet, meek touch of Christ,
a thousand times more mighty
than the sharpest sword.
