I am just beginning to dive into the beautiful, ancient devotion to the Five Wounds of Jesus, and I wanted to share a bit of the journey with you. It can feel a little overwhelming at first to look at the Crucifix this closely, but I’ve found such a gentle guide in St. Bernard of Clairvaux. In his Jubilee Rhythm on the Passion, Bernard doesn't treat the wounds of Jesus as distant historical facts or sights to be avoided. Instead, he approaches them with the tenderness of a friend, speaking directly to the feet, hands, side, and face of our Lord. For someone like me who is just starting out, his rhythm teaches that prayer isn't just about reciting words; it’s a holy hide-and-seek. Bernard invites us to literally hide ourselves within these wounds, seeing them as clefts in the rock where we can find shelter when our own lives feel turbulent or heavy.
As I start this process, I’ve been practicing what I call gazing and greeting. Following Bernard’s lead, I look at the Crucifix and offer a small, personal salutation to each wound. When I look at the pierced hands, I find myself thanking Him for the strength in my own hands; when I sit with the wound in His side, I imagine it as a Shore of Mercy where my heart can finally drop anchor. St. Bernard’s poetry reminds us that even when the conductor of the body seems silent in death, the symphony of His love is still playing for us. If you’re curious about starting this too, I encourage you to take it slow—maybe just one wound a day. Let the rhythm of His sacrifice become a new heartbeat for your prayer life, reminding you that there is no shadow so dark that His light hasn't already entered.
As I start this process, I’ve been practicing what I call gazing and greeting. Following Bernard’s lead, I look at the Crucifix and offer a small, personal salutation to each wound. When I look at the pierced hands, I find myself thanking Him for the strength in my own hands; when I sit with the wound in His side, I imagine it as a Shore of Mercy where my heart can finally drop anchor. St. Bernard’s poetry reminds us that even when the conductor of the body seems silent in death, the symphony of His love is still playing for us. If you’re curious about starting this too, I encourage you to take it slow—maybe just one wound a day. Let the rhythm of His sacrifice become a new heartbeat for your prayer life, reminding you that there is no shadow so dark that His light hasn't already entered.
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