There is a line in old Tamil Christian hymnology that has always unsettled me in the best way. It is a line that seeks to honour Christ not by standing at a distance in reverence, but by moving closer in love. It says, “Kayangalai mutham seiven” meaning I will kiss the wounds.
It is a startling image. Not the haloed Christ of stained glass, not the resurrected Christ bathed in light, but the wounded Christ. And the love being offered is not applause, not poetry, not even worship as performance, but intimacy with pain. To kiss what is broken. To kiss what is scarred.
That line has stayed with me because it refuses convenience. It refuses beauty that is easy. It suggests that love, if it is to be true, must be brave enough to move toward wounds.
We often think love is about kissing what is pleasant. The smile. The strength. The parts of a person that are already healed, already impressive, already socially acceptable. We are good at loving people when they are at their best, when they are successful, joyful, stable, put together. But love that only exists where things are beautiful is not love. It is preference.
To kiss a wound is different. It means staying when there is blood. When there is awkwardness. When there is silence you cannot fix. When someone’s pain makes you uncomfortable. It means not rushing people to heal just so you can be at ease again.
This is, of course, philosophical language. We are not talking about romanticising pain or turning suffering into spectacle. But sometimes philosophy becomes literal too. Sometimes loving someone really does look like sitting beside them when they are breaking down. Listening without solutions. Touching gently where the world has been rough.
Love, in this sense, is not indulgent. It is transformative. True love slowly perfects us, not into flawless people, but into people who are less reluctant of others’ pain.
And this matters deeply today.
We are told, over and over, that this is the most depressed generation. Or perhaps the most emotionally aware. Whatever name we give it, the reality underneath is hard to ignore. Loneliness is widespread. Burnout is normalised. Suicide rates, especially among the young, are no longer shocking headlines but recurring tragedies. Many people are walking around with invisible wounds, functioning just well enough that no one thinks to ask how they are really doing. In such a world, love cannot afford to be shallow. We do not need more curated affection, more performative romance, more Valentine’s Day gestures that evaporate by morning. We need a deeper courage. The courage to love in ways that heal rather than impress. To kiss their wounds and to allow them to kiss yours.
The hymn got it right. We must love one another not by demanding perfectness, but by staying thru their brokenness as well. This Valentine’s season, perhaps love does not need to be louder. Perhaps it needs to be gentler. And maybe, quietly and patiently, we can heal the world together.