queerlychristian:

The Washing of Feet

These hands once cradled stars
in the throes of their birthpangs.

From these lips once burst a Word
that expanded outward into a
universe.

Brown hands. Calloused palms. Nails
ridged
and chipped at the ends of long
fingers

well-acquainted with splinters,
with
the rope-burn kiss of a fisher’s
net.

These the hands of a shepherd, a
carpenter, a king,
a God — these the hands

that cradle your feet now, worship
with oblation of water, pressing of
lips.

He exhales as he kisses your newly
washed feet.
From
breath you came, by breath you are transformed.

Here is the Act that topples
monarchies:
the Universe’s Ruler on his knees.