There are wounds people leave
seams that split in ways we can’t stitch,
hurt that hammers us hollow—
a weight we shoulder alone,
or so it seems,
Until God whispers,
“I will go with you,”
and his voice presses in, soft like breath,
but firm like the ground
under our feet.
“If I’m not there,” we say, “we can’t move forward,
can’t take another step.”
So he passes by, glimpses of light,
the faintest threads of his glory trailing behind.
We lean in close but never too close,
because his goodness is too much to behold,
a brightness too fierce for the naked eye.
We look, we flinch, we look again—
fingers over eyes like shielding from an eclipse.
This world spins with shadows and splendour
we chase all the wrong glories,
faces sculpted to mask the emptiness,
mirror-touched, screen-seen,
our souls thin as gloss.
Yet his radiance was never found there—
it came wrapped in flesh,
God-with-us in the dust and the dirt.
In Jesus, the glow of love turned visible,
human hands bearing heaven’s warmth,
arms wide to gather the broken and bring them back home.
And we are transformed,
but not by the surgeon’s knife or the filtered light—
by moments in his presence,
the way Moses shone, veiled and holy,
skin alive with a radiance not his own.
Time spent with him leaves marks,
like the sun on bare skin—
an undeniable gleam,
this glow we carry,
his spirit woven deep, like threads of fire,
making us more like him, light-filled and sure,
And we have it better than Moses—
no mountain to climb,
no hidden veils or hushed places,
just his presence at every turn,
and a flame that leads us
Based on a sermon by Andrew West, The Bridge Church Macquarie Park
The Afterword 
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