A poem by Amy Carmichael who was a Christian missionary in China, and spent 20 years or so from her sickbed, writing, organising and being a spiritual tour de force.

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on for it side or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land.
Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers.
Spent. Leaned me against a tree to die.
And rent by ravening wolves that compassed me.

I swooned.
Hast thou no wound?
No wound, no scar?
Yet as the master must the servant be.
And pierced are the feet that follow me.
But thine are whole.
Can he have followed far
That hast no wound or scar?