Strong fingers grabbed His garments
As they laid aside their whips.
Men greedy for civilian cloth
Though blood oozed through in drips.
Their victim nearly naked, when
They stopped and gazed in awe,
For, woven to perfection like
They'd never seen before,
His under-shirt was seamless, a
Refinement in design.
And as they put it up for lots
Each thought, "I hope it's mine."
A Seamless Shirt, some weaver's art,
Had seamlessly embraced
In one, the Son of God and Man;
A shirt? A Robe? encased
The seamless incarnation of
The Mind of God in one
With humble human form and flesh,
A virgin woman's Son.
This poem was a finalist in the November 2016 poetry contest