For You,
I turned water
into wine, purified in the veins
of My own body.
I climbed mountains, healed
crowds of
hunger, warmed a leper’s skin. For
you I chastised
leaders, halted stones, wrote on
the ground each
word contained in Love.
I overturned
unfair prices and low wages, tabled
discussions
about who’s first or last, and enjoyed
the most
unlikely company.
Before My
execution, I tamed a donkey, became
your beast of
burden, then bled from every pore.
Once for all, I
buried death, and, when I arose,
some saw Me.
Some heard Me as I broke through
the veil,
cloaking time and eternity, and, yes,
for you, I’d do
it all again.
Amen.
Mary Harwell Sayler from book A Gathering of
Poems
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