If a finger to the wound cannot be pressed,
He will not believe—his heart forever distressed.
Without the marks where nails pierced God’s hands,
His faith, like shifting sand, unsteady stands.
No solemn oath, no cherished declaration,
Will stir in him the hope of Resurrection.
Doubting Thomas, the loyal yet unclear,
Lost in shadows, veiled by doubt and fear.
How they failed to grasp, this truth profound,
That with Him, they are forever unbound.
Yet let it be known, a blessing bestowed,
On those who believe, where no proof has flowed.
In a world full of wonders, he could not see,
The glories of faith, elusive yet free.
Didymus Thomas, in shadows confined,
Wrestling with doubt, its chains intertwined.
Though God’s death stirred hearts, a sorrow profound,
The weight of the cross, in darkness he found.
For in witnessing pain, they were blinded, bereft,
And therefore let it be known, as hope’s last bereft—
Blessed are they who believe without sight,
Carrying faith in the silence of night.
If a finger to His wound cannot be pressed,
He will not believe, in his solitude rest.
Yet when he laid eyes on the scars of the slain,
In that moment of grief, he found faith through pain.
Though he touched the wounds, yet many stand bold,
In belief without sight, their stories unfold.
May they be blessed for eternity’s grace,
For they have not seen, yet still run the race.
