Poetry

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You walked across the hot, dry sand
To free the tired and weak
And it would be my pleasure, Lord
If I could wash your feet

You strolled upon the angry waves
Not turning in retreat
And it would be my privilege, Lord
If I could wash your feet

You bore your cross to Calvary
My needs you died to meet
And I would be most humbled, Lord
If I could wash your feet

You stood before an empty grave
To claim my soul complete
And it would be an honor, Lord
If I could wash your feet

Heaven’s floors are golden
With no dust upon the street
Your perfect, holy being
Need not bathe in ointment, sweet

But here within my grateful heart
I bow and wash your feet

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