From a Hospice Nurse

Some lines tracing the phenomena of death and resurrection

TW // graphic descriptions of death

On Good Friday, I shared some paragraphs on physical death and my fellowship with God In a Body. Today, I’d like to share some stanzas on physical death and the triumph of God In a Body. Though I no longer work as a hospice nurse, my time in that position has left an indelible mark on me. Hard core poets, please don’t judge me too harshly!

Here’s to the One whom death couldn’t hold down!

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Let’s talk about death. 

Is it best left in a closet of mind and emotion?

Or do we need to reconsider this mantle that

Covers all of mankind?

It’s easy to treat death like a sentimental coat: 

Take it out on occasion and ever-so-gently brush it off. 

But a brush with death is not so serene.

There’s nothing pretty about cachexia, a condition in which

You can count all her bones, skin folds limp and 

Hollow eyes listless, teeth protruding from bloated gums.

Oh, how death gloats.

And we can’t dress up the 

Agonized heaving, hands and feet growing colder by the minute,

Thick secretions seething through clenched teeth.

Unless we reckon with the naked truth, we’re just playing dress up. 

We’re spritzing perfume to mask the stench of rotting flesh.

Until we address the horror, 

We cannot grasp the glory. 

Lord of life, cloaked in light, Himself the naked Truth 

Was sprawled across a tree to unveil God’s sweeping plan:

Thick secretions caked onto cracked lips,

Hands and feet burning from shredded nerves.

He heaved in agony, subject to gloating as they counted all His bones. 

Skin hung limp on His tortured frame, but His eyes blazed fire 

With an electrifying awareness of what hung in the balance:

Nothing less than the death of Death 

And the shredding of its shroud. 

So there Christ sagged, Lord of glory, suspended between heaven and earth,

Luring the devil to

Lean in for the kill. 

And lean in he did.

Death shrieked in triumph–only to realize too late that 

A trap had been laid. 

Christ laid His life down, 

And with His last cry, Tetelestai,

He untied “the covering cast over all peoples, the veil spread over all nations.”  

Two days ticked by, no sign of life, Christ’s body bound in linen. 

But the third day dawned differently.

His skin once torn adorned with scars.

Fresh breath, no rattle,

Whistled through the cloth.

Each thump pumped blood throughout His chest,

And new life rushed into limbs.

Arms arched, legs stretched–no longer stiff–and snapped the linen bonds.

One tug from nimble fingers cast the casing from His head.  

His lips now moist and full relaxed into a grin.

All shrouds of death no longer fit His resurrected frame.

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Shoutout to Alaina Pekary for helping me rework many lines towards maximum impact. Soli Deo gloria.

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