At His Feet

At His Feet 

A Triptych for Holy Week

image

In Bethany

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.

 

image

Entombed

Word made beloved Flesh

Carries life to the foot of a cross

A reliquary for the weight of all worlds,

Past, present and future.

 

Once all is accomplished,

Feet and hands liberated,

Body and blood lowered to be

Born away and returned to the Earth.

 

Pierced with mallet and spike,

Blood, sweat and filth

Mingle now with tears

Over dust he created.

 

Cleansed, prepared and embalmed,

Freed from the grime of death and life.

Wrapped in love and grave cloths.

At rest and caressed one last time.

 

image

Garden Path

Fragrant myrrh gushes from

Another broken jar,

Dropped from hands now

Clutching treasured feet.

 

Hows and whys are bottled up

As laughter, tears, kisses pour out.

Feet unbound by resurrection

Take the first steps of new life.

 

In a room filled with the sweet incense of

Answers requiring no questions.

Wounds and hearts no longer bleed,

Scars are healed without pain.

 

I take up my familiar place.

Seated at his feet once more,

And contemplating new scars,

Pondering the path I’ll follow next.

At His Feet…continued


At His Feet 

A Triptych for Holy Week

…continued


In Bethany

image

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.

 

image

Entombed

 

Word made beloved Flesh

Carries life to the foot of a cross

A reliquary for the weight of all worlds,

Past, present and future.

 

Once all is accomplished,

Feet and hands liberated,

Body and blood lowered to be

Born away and returned to the Earth.

 

Pierced with mallet and spike,

Blood, sweat and filth

Mingle now with tears

Over dust he created.

 

Cleansed, prepared and embalmed,

Freed from the grime of death and life.

Wrapped in love and grave cloths.

At rest and caressed one last time.

 

At His Feet Part One


At His Feet 

A Triptych for Holy Week

Part One:

image
In Bethany

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.