What was it like

to wash the feet

of sarcastic Thomas?

Or hear bombastic Peter claim,

by withholding, his superiority?

Or what to smell the earthy mix

of sweat and dirty toes

while awkward glances flitted round?

Or what to wash the traitor’s feet?

Did he pull back or full extend,

eagerer than anyone to

proffer feet to Christ?

What was it like to know that

wisecracks, blowhards, traitors—men—

all would scatter as you wend

your way to death?

What was it like,

what is it like,

to wash my feet,

oh Lord?

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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash