His Touch

He kneels, and servant-like, he takes my feet

to wash, and then to gently wipe them clean

and I am purified by his esteem.

Intimate, his hands my loneliness defeat.

I feel discomfort, my unease is much

accustomed to the dust and soil-ed end.

But He, from God, would have me as his friend!

No fantasy! Who could forget his touch?

Gently wash my heart and mind – the whole of me;

and forever, I your dearest friend, will be.

                                         Harold Macdonald


Tomorrow is Holy Thursday. Let us begin with this poem as a reminder of the intimacy of the footwashing.