In the wounds of woman and the steadfastness of man,
Eden remembers.
Movement One: The Celebration of the Wound
He does not bring the scalpel
because he despises her wound..
he brings it
because he loves her glory too much
to leave it buried beneath the scar.
He does not cut her to own her.
He cuts her, trembling,
because he believes in what will rise
when the old blood runs clean.
It is not an act of violence.
It is an offering of celebration—
the highest kind of self-love,
the boldest kind of faith—
to believe that the Lord Himself
will bend over the wound
and pour His living water
into the brokenness.
And as the wound opens,
and the darkness spills out,
he does not recoil.
He does not rescue.
He does not preach.
He watches.
He prays.
He stands.
And when she rises,
washed and radiant,
he knows:
her rising demands his own.
There is no longer room
for smallness in him.
No longer space
for hidden shadows to cling.
For her glory will call forth his.
And his celebration of her healing
will tear open the last vestiges of his shame,
until his own light sings back to hers,
undiminished, unafraid.
This was never a conquest.
It was always a coronation.
It was always the Gospel written in flesh.
It was always love.
---
Movement Two: Standing in the Breach
He stands now,
at the trembling edge
where blood and water meet spirit.
He does not flinch at her unraveling.
He does not cover her nakedness in shame.
He does not grasp at her breaking,
nor reach to hasten her healing.
He stands.
A living shield.
A silent witness.
A priest without altar or knife.
He understands:
his strength is not proven
by his power to fix—
but by his power to wait.
To watch as Love Himself
tends the wound,
cradles the scar,
renews the soul.
To endure the terror of powerlessness
without collapsing into control.
This—
this is his glory:
that he can behold her agony,
and still believe
that the end of her suffering
will not be death,
but birth.
That the light swelling beneath her skin
will one day eclipse even the memory of the blade.
And in that waiting,
he too is cut open.
He too is pierced by the same water,
the same fire,
the same song of new creation.
And he knows:
only a man who can stand silently in the breach,
bearing her vulnerability without corrupting it,
is worthy to walk beside the woman
reborn by the touch of the Living God.
He does not steal her resurrection.
He bears it.
He does not name her rising.
He joins it.
---
Movement Three: The Ascension of Two
They do not walk out of the garden
as they once did—
naked and ashamed,
separated by fear,
carrying fig leaves sewn from survival.
They rise now
fully clothed in light—
not light borrowed,
not light stolen,
but light born from wounds
washed clean in sacred water.
She stands,
not above him,
not behind him,
but beside—
her beauty no longer weaponized,
her tenderness no longer bartered.
And he—
he no longer hides behind strength,
no longer confuses sacrifice with silence,
no longer fears her radiance
as a threat to his crown.
They do not complete one another.
They honor what was completed
before time ever breathed.
She holds the memory of Eden.
He bears the ache of its return.
And together—
they offer the altar of their becoming
to the One who formed them both.
This is not romance.
This is restoration.
This is not power.
This is presence.
This is the kind of union
that does not dim under pressure,
does not wither under attention,
does not fracture when seen.
It is the kind
that makes the darkness jealous.
Because when man and woman
stand in full light together,
wounds lanced,
glory rising—
the Garden itself begins
to hum with memory..
And God walks there once more.