At His Feet

At His Feet 

A Triptych for Holy Week

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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.

 

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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.

 

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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.

 

 

Once… (a Holy Saturday meditation)

Once, I walked on water.

Once...
Once…

 

Once, I looked into his laughing eyes while I put one naked foot after the other on the shifting surface of a stormy sea. But yesterday…

…his eyes were filled with pain. The pain of disappointment, “Why couldn’t you stay awake with me, especially tonight, Simon?” The pain of a thousand crushing voices screaming, “Crucify him!” The pain of betrayal, “I don’t know him. Never saw him before. You lie! I’m not with him.” The pain of separation, “Take care of her, John.”

 

Once, I felt his hands (made strong with helping his dad build and repair tables for all those years) pluck me from raging waters that grabbed at me, threatening to overwhelm. Hands whose only violent act had been to rebuke blasphemous dogs who took advantage of the faithful poor. Hands that healed and blessed and fed. Hands that reached out to restore what my one poorly aimed blow so foolishly cut away. Once I watched his hands break the unleavened bread, offer the cup to Judas. But yesterday…
…those hands were pierced and bleeding, convulsed in agony. I watched hands I love strain in anguish against iron spikes, despite mangled muscle and torn tendon.

 

Once, I heard his voice, calling to me over the wind and the waves, laughing as he shouted the name he’d given me. “Rock!” And then chiding me, like I was a little boy, for being afraid when he was right there with me the whole time. The voice that stopped the wind and the waves and soothed the crying babes placed in his always open arms. But yesterday…
…his voice cried out in misery as nails were driven through his wrists, and then that voice spoke words of forgiveness to his enemies, to those who betrayed him, and to those of us who said we loved him and would never leave him, but were too afraid to stand with him. And I heard his voice cry out to his Father. Our Father. “Abba, Abba…”

 

Once, I couldn’t wait to get out of the boat. Nothing could have stopped me from stepping from the deck to the water. But yesterday…
…I couldn’t wait to get away from the scene of my shame. My bones turned to water at the words of a serving girl. The stones of the courtyard might as well have been waves as the eyes that witnessed my shame rolled over me like a flood.
…Friday, no matter where I ran, or from whom I turned, my flight put me on the hill overlooking the place of execution. I saw it all. I heard it all. The darkness and the weeping. The jeers and the awe.

 

Yesterday, when I heard that cock crow, I knew nothing would ever be right again.

 

But once…

 

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