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Were there sun spots on His arm,
and sandal-callouses on His feet?
Were there cracks in His fingernails,
dust and grit beneath them,
snarls in His beard,
and as he led you up the mountain
under the fire of the Galilean sun,
did sweat form on the back of His neck
and soak his robes like water?
I hope so.
I hope I can see, one day,
some hint of what you three saw
high on that hill,
some thread of God's robe,
some reflected ray of His transcendence.

For me, transcendence is a ghost,
a flitting shadow, a nervous tic of grammar.
I know it is, was and shall be,
but in this form it is hidden from me
and I am not magician enough
to create the illusion
of it in my life, and perhaps I know
this failing too well, so well that I let the knowledge
affect me, drag me down into
the dark of the whale's belly
where I focus too strongly on the meaty musk
of that dark,
ignoring the white accordion cathedral
ceiling of whale bones
that rises all around me, arching
up to a canopy high as heaven;
ignoring the glitter of emerald, ruby, sapphire
in the water as I strike a match,
seeing only the inky black as the match fades,
feeling only the restriction of my movement
as the water rises to my waist;
ignoring the cleansing that cleans
whether I know it or not.

O Lord, transfigure my soul, my self, my very being,
save me from this body of death,
make me a light to shine on those around me.
Let my gaze be no longer inward.

Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ in me, Christ above me, Christ beneath me,
Christ on my right and my left,
Christ in every word I speak,
Christ in every word spoken of me,
Christ in every ear that hears me,
Christ in every eye that sees me.

O Lord,
transfigure me,
and catch me when I fall.