In 1919, Edward Shillito — a poet and World War I chaplain — wrote the poem below in response to the horrors he had witnessed. It is not a philosophical answer to the trauma and suffering of broken people, but rather, the reality of the hope found in a Messiah who associates with our suffering.
Jesus of the Scars
If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow,
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.
The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.
If when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know today what wounds are, have no fear,
Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.
The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.
Even when Heaven seems to be silent, we can still be assured that the wounded soul can find solace in a risen Saviour who knows what it is to suffer — the One whose hands and side bear eternal scars.