Washed

-Liz Trenckmann-

You washed his feet.

Why did you do that?

Why did you fill the bowl, wrap a towel around you, lay your God hands on his dirty, dingy, rotten feet, and then washed them?

One soft wipe,

Another,

And another.

The clean white cloth becoming brown.

It was not the first time you had held his feet.

For you knit them together in his mother’s womb.

You knew where those feet would carry him. 

All the dirt now gone.

Only Tender skin, glistening in the light of the sunset through the window.

Clean as a freshly washed babe.

So much care, love, and forgiveness.

You did all this. . . knowing, he would take your food and forgiveness,

And fail you.

He was a fraud, a felon, and faithless.

You cleaned him, and he killed you.

Why did you wash his feet?

Why did you hold his wretchedness in your hands,

carry his hate on your shoulders,

and embrace his depravity on your back?

Why did you give your blood for his?

Why do you wash the feet of sinners?

Why do you count our hairs,

Pursue us to the depths,

And know every word on our tongues?

Why do you hold us tight,

Lay your hands on us,

And lead us into eternity?

We are frauds, fakes, and faithless.

Our feet are dirty, dingy, and rotten.

We take your food and your forgiveness and fail you.

Why did you hold our wretchedness in your hands,

carry our hate on your shoulders,

and embrace our depravity on your back?

Yet, we lay clean before you.

Not cleaned by our own cloth, but. . .

by yours.

One soft wipe,

Another,

And another.

The clean white cloth exchanging its whiteness for our brown.

All the dirt gone.

Only Tender skin, glistening in the light of the sunset through the window.

Clean as a freshly washed baby.

So much care, love, and forgiveness.

You wash our feet, knowing where they will take us.

Only one thing you ask:

that we abide in the love the Father and

love as you have loved.

Oh, that I would be able to wash the feet of the fraud, fake, and faithless

just as you did for me.