Hidden in His Wounds

Soul of Christ, sanctify me.

Body of Christ, save me.

Blood of Christ, inebriate me.

Water from the side of Christ, wash me.

Passion of Christ, strengthen me. 

O good Jesus, hear me. 

Within your wounds hide me. 

Separated from you, let me never be. 

From the evil one protect me. 

At the hour of my death, call me

Jesus, call me.

Close to you, Jesus bid me that with all the Saints I may praise thee. 

Praise you forever and forever.

Praise you forever. Amen.

Mother's Day has always been my Gethsemane, a place where I wrestle with God while the rest of the congregation prepares to celebrate motherhood. Last year was no different. I sat in the pew, raw and bleeding. How could no one see this wound?

Then, during Communion, we began to sing the Anima Christi. I've sung this prayer countless times before, but something shifted when we reached the line: "Within your wounds hide me." The words pierced through me. Why would we ask to be hidden inside wounds? Wounds are places of pain, of brokenness, of vulnerability. They're the last place anyone would choose as a hiding spot. Yet here was this ancient prayer, inviting us to seek refuge in the very places where Christ hurt the most.

As someone who carries the hidden wound of infertility, I couldn't help but wonder: What does it mean to hide in Christ's wounds when I'm so desperate to escape my own? How can the place of His greatest suffering become our place of safety? And what might this mean for those of us whose arms ache with emptiness, whose bodies bear invisible scars from loss and longing?

That night, as I pondered these words, I began to see something I'd never noticed before. The Anima Christi isn't asking us to hide from our pain. It's inviting us to bring our wounds to His wounds. It's a prayer that understands something profound about suffering: that the safest place for the wounded might just be with the One who was wounded for us. To hide in Christ's wounds is to acknowledge that He understands woundedness from the inside. It's to recognize that the safest place for our broken hearts might be nestled within His broken body.

The Passion connection: "Passion of Christ, strengthen me."

This line directly precedes the invitation to hide in His wounds, and the connection isn't accidental. During His passion, that journey from Gethsemane to Golgotha, Christ received the very wounds that would become our refuge. Every lash, every thorn, every nail created a space where our suffering could find a home.

I've often wondered why God allows the wound of infertility to persist. I've asked God why this particular cross, why this specific suffering? But when I pray "Passion of Christ, strengthen me," I'm reminded that strength doesn't always come through the removal of suffering. Sometimes it comes through the transformation of that suffering. When united with His passion, our wounds become more than just sources of pain; they become places where grace can enter, where strength can grow in ways we never expected.

The strength that comes from Christ's passion isn't the strength to pretend we're not hurting. It's the strength to remain open-hearted in our pain, to continue loving when love costs everything, to keep hoping when hope seems foolish. It's the strength I see in women who, despite years of disappointment, still rejoice with friends who announce pregnancies. It's the strength to show up to one more baby shower, to field one more thoughtless comment, to wake up one more morning and choose trust over bitterness.

The paradox of wounded refuge

My first instinct was to recoil from the image of hiding in His wounds. Wounds are raw, tender places. They're where we're most vulnerable, most exposed to further hurt. While carrying the cross of infertility, I've spent so much energy trying to protect my wounds, building walls around my heart before baby showers, crafting careful responses to well-meaning questions, holding my breath through pregnancy announcements. But as I sat with this prayer, I began to understand something profound: Christ's wounds are different. They're not closed-off places of bitterness or self-protection. His wounds remain open not as signs of defeat, but as portals of love. Thomas was invited to place his fingers there. We're invited to hide there.

But there's something more happening when we hide in Christ's wounds. We're not just seeking comfort; we're being positioned as healing agents. Mother Mary Francis (Anima Christi, 2001)  writes that what we hide in a wound is "something to heal it, something to soothe its rawness". When we ask to be hidden in His wounds, we're offering ourselves as a healing factor in the suffering of His mystical body, the Church. Our infertility doesn't disqualify us from this work. It positions us for it.

Finding a hiding place in Christ's wounds puts us in a place of “perilous safety”, as Mother Mary Francis calls it. We cannot ask to be hidden in Christ's wounds to be sealed off from being wounded ourselves. Instead, we sink down into suffering, and there we find our purpose.

Journal and reflection prompts

By Lauren Allen

• What wounds have you been granted while carrying the cross of infertility? (Physical, emotional, mental, spiritual) 

• For this exercise, in prayer, ask the Holy Spirit to show you which of the wounds you’ve received is the deepest.

• Invite Christ to show you in prayer what graces have come by enduring this deep wound. 

• Imagine Christ’s resurrected body… What would touching his wounds mean? How would you interact by the invitation to touch his wound?

• Reflect on the fact that Christ endured every wound for you. What does this mean for us while we endure our wounds?

• Would you say that Christ’s wounds were fruitful? Why? 

• What does the invitation to hide in Christ’s wound mean to you? 

• In practicality, what does hiding in His wound look like?