At His Feet

The fragrant oil was poured
upon His feet so sore and tired,
and she knelt down and washed them
with tears of salt and sorrow,
and dried them, oh so tenderly
with her undone tresses for a towel.

He in turn passed on the gift
of service to His friends.
He washed the dust and dirt
from weary, aching feet
before the dinner.

Such gentle gifts of love and service
for the body's lowest part;
why, oh why couldn't
the tenderness last, why must it turn
to pain unimaginable?

The burly solder took the spike and
drove it through his feet.
Ring of hammer could not mask
the screams of pain
this tortuous act had caused.
Blood and tissue, pain untold,
no washing could assuage.

And there they stood,
the ones He loved,
just below those precious feet
that once had been
anointed so fragrantly.
Helplessly they watched the blood
pulse out from the holes in His extremities.

Oh Jesus Christ my Savior,
how I long to ease your pain!
My own tears of distress
I will use to wash away the stain
of blood and hurt inflicted
upon Your feet so bruised and broken,
until the pain exists no more
with only love remaining.