That I might wipe Your feet with my hair, Lord,
Your feet before You were nailed,
That my hair might bandage Your wounds,
Stop the pain, blunt the nails, still the blood
That runs from Your tortured body
As You suffered for the sake of the indifferent.
That evening Your feet were anointed, Lord,
Was the last domestic scene
Before You left for the public humiliation and death
That we might have You always
In the Eucharistic feast.
But in Bethany, Mary, Martha, Lazarus,
Remembered their last supper as
The perfume of love transcending death.