At His Feet

At His Feet 

A Triptych for Holy Week


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.




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.



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.

I am Mary

I am Mary


I abandoned childish things

And took up a life of

Motherhood, misery and mercy

He calls me Mother

I am Mary of Nazareth



I pushed aside the ought-tos

Taking my place at his feet

Bending, blessing and becoming.

He calls me Little One

I am Mary of Bethany



I surrendered to his love,

Letting him take away the stranglehold

Of pain, poison, and prison bars.

He calls me Delivered

I am Mary of Magdala



We followed him

As we’d always done, always would,

From golgotha, to grave, to garden.

He calls us His own

We are Mary

Renae Meredith