Remember the time
when he spoke
and something quickened
in your bones
like a match struck in the dark?
You picked up that stretcher
and strode into a new day,
under a laughing sun,
before a hundred craning necks.
Remember the time
when he broke the bread
and then vanished
and you gasped
because you knew him?
That wry smile
like a wink
and a welcome.
Remember the time
you felt the ground
against your face?
Damnation crackled the air
like electrical wires.
You crawled to his feet,
waiting.
And then he said, “Rise.”
And you looked
afraid
but they were gone
and you were alone
together.
Forgiven.
Safe.
Free.
Remember the time
you wailed
long into the night?
“She is dead!
My girl
is dead.”
And he said,
like the voice of reason,
“She is only asleep.”
On the sudden,
she was serving you
biscuits and tea
with two cubes of sugar
just the way you like it.
Remember the time
you said, “No,”
instead of “Yes”?
The rooster crowed
as promised
and you felt regret,
the great worm in your belly,
until he came to you
while you dissolved in shame,
calling you
friend,
rock,
which you could not imagine.
But you were together.
Forgiven.
Brave.
Free.
Remember the time
he untied his sandals,
disrobed,
and we saw
his shoulder blades,
the back of his knee?
He took basin and towel,
and washed our feet:
calluses,
broken nails,
and sweat.
And we knew,
because it was just his way,
that we could walk a thousand miles
in a desert,
a life-time if need be,
so long as he washed our feet
like this
at the end.
Remember.
The time is still here
and not yet.
Not yet.
