I was inspired during an Easter message to write this poem about Jesus’ resurrection from the perspective of “Doubting” Thomas the disciple. Read his story in John 20:24-31.
“Follow me,” you said and I considered the call.
Hesitantly stepped out, trust never tall.
I watched, amazed, as the blind received sight,
Heard you point out the difference between darkness and light.
When they came broken and outcast and deep in their sins,
You welcomed them, healed them, and called them your friends.
The prideful and powerful balked at your signs.
And refused to believe they’d seen the divine.
I cursed them in silence, thinking, “Look at this man!”
“He’s clearly sent down from the Father’s right hand!”
But I didn’t listen well to the words you shared.
Maybe I was distracted, confused, or scared.
“Three days later, this temple I’ll raise.”
I didn’t remember, couldn’t see through the haze,
When they took you and beat you and said you must die,
And your body, on a tree, was raised to the sky.
It was over, I knew. We must go back to before,
When you weren’t around and our hope felt so poor.
“It is finished,” you whispered on barely a breath,
And then irreversibly stepped into death.
I saw you there—in the tomb, lifeless and still.
I cried with our friends every day, until—
“He’s alive! We’ve seen him! It really is true!”
I said, “You’re crazy. What’s happened to you?”
“I’ll never believe, never change my mind.
He’s gone forever, only a corpse left behind.”
They insisted, persisted, so I made my demands:
“I must see with my eyes, feel the scars with my hands.”
A week passed, in hiding, but our friends spoke with hope,
Me stubbornly grasping the one way I could cope.
One day I sat praying, but not at all hearing.
I looked up, startled—there you were, appearing!
What would you say? I’d been wrong all along!
Your voice spoke my name, gentle yet strong.
Drew me closer, said, “Come—put your hand in my side.”
I felt the traces of pain, relived how you died.
It was you—my friend, “My Lord and my God!”
I saw and believed in what I’d first thought so odd.
“You see first then believe,” you said without scolding.
“Blessed are those who trust but can’t see what’s unfolding.”
I took in the hope and knew I could not be the same.
You died but you live—and I’ll die living for your name.
I tell all, “Believe! He’s the King—conqueror of death!”
“I know you can’t see him, but he’ll meet your last breath.”
Every day I’m amazed by the grace that flows far,
As you reveal more and more to us all that you are.
And you still show yourself to those who must see—
To doubters and cynics and skeptics like me.