Shroud of Love

I looked and saw dead Jesus on a shroud,
not Father there, nor Holy Spirit dove,
placed peaceful, plain, not humble yet not proud,
disfigured, scourged, and crucified for love.

The bloody thorn-like wounds above His face,
not on His palms, the nail holes through each wrist,
compelling pity, yet projecting grace,
my loving Jesus of the Eucharist.

The scientists have examined every bit,
its pollen traced to ancient Palestine,
no paint or pigment does the image fit,
this photographic negative divine.

Christ, I confess this Turin relic true,
a nuclear-blasted picture made of You.

                     by Pete Voelz        4/23/15