Clean

They sit, quietly

the twelve and their master

eating their meal with dirty feet and sober hearts.

They sit with eyes averted, each desiring to wash the Master’s feet

but not their brother’s.

Each thinking: I am not the least of these,

I am not the least.

He rises from his comfort,

laying aside His covering, for them

while Angels long to robe him in royalty.

He ties a towel around his waist

that he might dry their feet,

that he might take on the appearance of the least of these –

redefining greatness.

He pours out water, He pours out himself.

The one who has all things in His hands

picks up their feet –

He cleanses them

as His Father does.

One protests, veiling his pride with humility

“not me, Lord, not my feet”

But he must be cleansed by Him

To be made whole

To be made right

They sit, quietly,

The twelve and their master

eating their meal with clean feet and sober hearts.

They sit with eyes averted, each baffled and embarrassed,

for the greatest among them just made himself the least.

He answers: wash their feet as I have washed yours.

They feel His call,

They will soon understand His love.

He loves them with His words,

He loves them with His life,

He calls them to follow

They will remember this night.