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  • Writer's pictureVictoria Monet

Grace Incarnated

Updated: Aug 9, 2019

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






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