Grace is hot, honey-sweetened tea
Running down my raw throat
Coating the dry, sore spots.
Grace is my body thrust
Out of a cool, still river
Gasping for air as the sunbeams
Refract the drops on my face.
Grace is olive oil saturating
Bloody cuts on my hands,
Honey coating my raw throat,
Cool water quenching my dehydrated bones.
Grace is olive oil dripping down
The priest’s forehead and eyelashes
And lips to their bellies,
Nard like honey
Dripping down the Christ’s
Forehead and eyelashes and lips
To his belly.
Grace is the Savior’s feet
Brushed with saltwater tears,
Cool water poured over
The disciples’ calloused heels
Wiped with the Servant’s robe.
Grace is an olive pressed
Bleeding oil through its pores,
Sunbeams refracting
Tears on her face as
She approaches her son’s grave.
Grace is his body thrust up to the heavens
Rain pouring down
Washing over our foreheads
and eyelashes and lips
To our bellies,
Filling up our bodies
and
Dripping
Over
Our
Toes