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.
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.