Maundy Thursday

He'd have had his feet washed sometime,
not with rich perfume or gushing tears,
but with water, by a hard-pressed servant,
slave almost, eyes cast down, and
shoulders sagging from a lifetime's toil.

And he'd have noticed. The servant
would have mattered, have counted to him.
And he'd have stored up in his heart
how our comfort comes at others' cost,
our humanity drains as we deny the human.

That night of all nights, in the upper room,
stripped of all finery he washed our feet,
became the untermensch, beneath notice.
Peter noticed, and couldn't bear it. A kingdom
without kings, a commonwealth of servants.

Have we kept the kingdom free of slaves,
learned the hard lesson he taught to Peter,
been servants of all, and sought the lowest place?
Remember the dusty feet that stumbled and fell
carrying the heavy cross to Calvary.