How Beautiful the Feet

The scent of crucifixion—sweat, filth, blood—
is mixed with spikenard, perfume of a king.
Those fresh-anointed feet, now nailed to wood,
still smell as beautiful as news they bring. 

The wretched masses lift their eyes above
to see the Curse now lifted up, undone.
The serpent bites His heel; eternal love
ordains a nail to crush both snake and Son. 

Mary Magdalene is at His feet,
her eyes as parched as Jesus’ throat. Then He,
with final cry, declares His work complete.
Like dove from cage, He sets His spirit free. 

They pierce His side and see His body bleed.
The guards report His life finished indeed.

Then Mary watches as they heap with myrrh 
the body of the Lamb, now shorn of breath.
A stone secures the mouth of sepulcher.
The Sabbath lingers silent, still as death.   

Before the sun can rise and shine its light,
she comes to seek the Lord among the dead.
But guards lie lifeless next to men in white 
declaring He has risen as He said. 

She’s dazed until the Gardener speaks her name.
That smell of myrrh and spikenard, and that voice—
She turns and clings to Jesus’ feet. A flame
of faith consumes her doubt. Mary, rejoice! 

This Lion-Lamb, a Root and yet a Seed,
though slain and sown, now stands risen indeed!