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