These things did Thomas count as real:
The warmth of blood, the chill of steel,
The grain of wood, the heft of stone,
The last frail twitch of flesh and bone.
The vision of his skeptic mind
Was keen enough to make him blind
To any unexpected act
Too large for his small world of fact
His reasoned certainties denied
That one could live when one has died
Until his fingers read like Braille
The markings of the spear and nail.
May we, O God, by grace believe
And thus the risen Christ receive
Whose raw imprinted palms reached out
And beckoned Thomas from his doubt.
Thomas H. Troeger