I was at a Holy Thursday Service, and part of that service usually commemorates Jesus washing the disciple’s feet, at what is referred to as the Last Supper. The way this Catholic Parish did it was quite powerful. After the symbolic washing of the feet of some select people by the priest, seven stations were set up and everyone who wished to were invited to come up and wash the feet of others; friends, family or strangers. And people did and it was the faces of both those being washed and those washing that shone. As tears came to my eyes I began to once again experience the wonder of Holy Week.
Three Days Journey
The water pours over their broad calloused feet,
dribbling down brown into the basin.
His suntanned hands,
strong and scarred from the woodshop.
He rubs them dry with the towel around his waist.
God kneeling before his fickle followers.
Soon his blood will flow out over their souls,
cleansing them of their foulness.
But, first, the lips speaking of love will betray,
lips that chanted praise will call for death.
A mother will lose her son, a world will gain a mother.
Seemingly impenetrable darkness and despair,
will be pierced by bright brazen brilliance.
Death the destroyer transfigured into a luminous
lightning strike of Victory.
And I find myself mystified afresh;
tears of guilt and joy mingling on my face.
My right eye sees a cross love nailed to it,
My left eye sees an empty tomb life escaped from it.
I hear his voice, equal pardon and promise.
“I Am the Resurrection and the Life!”
Diantha L. Zschoche