A Cry from Magdala
Updated: Apr 9
Are these the feet that I have bathed,
these—drenched with hair and tears and scent,
stood in between my sin and stones,
held firm when his eyes met my own,
saw past my past,
my errors waived?
Are these the feet that I have chased
across the mountains, lake towns, storms,
and deserts, caked with family soil—
who silenced demons, handled boils,
passed supper plates,
with angels raced?
Are these the feet that I have kissed,
now torn by gravel, birch, and stake?
No matter: I would kiss again,
taste blood and dust, reclaim my sin—
just not to part
as souls dismissed.
Are those the feet of him made whole—
brought peace to all but not for me?
You gave mother, son, your dear Beholds.
Have you no words that I might hold?
“Don’t cling too close”
still wraiths my soul.
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