The Messiah came one day, tattered in Adam’s rags,
ragged and anxious from the moment of sin,
sick nearly to death.
I said, My father has betrayed you
and I have chased dead beauty.
Sit ragged with me by my hearth.
I too wear scars: do you know them?
These the contours that choice has worn
and the schisms of my youth.
Sit, Christ said, eternally. My hands have scars to hold.
Come, throw past curses into iceworn fields;
now is the moment of eternal breath.
See “Rublev” by Rowan Williams here.
The Consolations of Writing 
I don’t understand the poem, but I like it. How odd.
Thanks. I suppose that’s evidence that poetry can still move us even if we don’t fully understand it. It might help to know that it’s about the Christian philosopher Soren Kierkegaard, who wrote a lot about anxiety and despair.