At His Feet
A Triptych for Holy Week
While his Words of Life flowed
Over my head and into open hearts,
I contemplated the scars and calluses
Created over a lifetime of treading stony tracks.
Seated like a stone in the same room
And surrounded with sympathetic murmuring,
I fear my heartache will escape
As accusation, “I thought he loved us?”
Falling at his feet my betraying sobs whisper,
“You could have been here.”
While his tears anoint my head with mercy,
His voice calls the dead to life.
Gratitude pours from this broken vessel.
A fragrant offering applied with an
Urgency that banishes discretion
With a need to bless him before he’s gone.