He was sewn in time,
as are we.
Strips of cloth
upon his reception.
Strips of cloth
when he left,
and stripes
in between.
Naked he wore
lacerations
tightly to his soul.
Wounds cross stitched .
He was clothed
so we could be
naked without shame.
Gerald the Writer
Poetry, essay, and prose, oh my!
Gerald the Writer 
I love the title and how it explicates the vision of Christ in your poem. And it’s ironic because I can’t stand cross-stitching or any other craft, but there is another way to see it.
Thanks for stopping by Megan.