what did Jesus know when he stripped his clothes
and girded in a towel
smirked with a servant’s smile?
what did he know
as water trickled through his fingers
smeared with grime and sweat?
did he watch the darkened liquid
race over his hands
and burrow in the cracks
of calices worn from years
of labor in his father’s shop?
did he hesitate
when fragrances of earthworn feet
trailed past his bearded face
and drown in his nostrils?
did his heart race as layers of dirt
and filth, built for days and days
soaked, cracked, and simply wiped away?
is that how he could smile
at the pebble-of-the-church’s bipolar requests
commanding with a question,
pressing against this potent action?
and did his heart race when he kneeled low
before the face of one now given wholly
over in his mind to the devil in disguise?
did Jesus quibble?
did he pause and wring the cloth,
letting each brown drop plink-plink-plank
into the bowl, counting the cost,
waiting and washing, washing and waiting,
for a murmur, a whimper,
just a whisper from his poisoned brother?
did each liquid ripple remind him
of the cup of thick black wine
fragrant, rotten, sopping
with the filth of all mankind?
did he realize, even now,
what horror it would be
to lift and sip and down the whole thing
spirit, soul, body,
til it wrenched
inside, seared like fire through his veins;
taking him down, down, down,
yes, down to the lowest place;
beyond even the bearded faces
of nominal tradesmen;
beyond wealth stolen by the dirty and desperate;
beyond tombs washed in white;
and tears bleeding from the corners
of the whore’s swollen eyes;
beyond space, beyond time,
beyond broken ladders in the race toward heaven,
beyond the bent bondage of kings like herod,
as pharaohs upon pharaohs upon pharaohs
who no matter how long you’d plague ‘em
sayin’ ‘let my people go’
there’d never be a curse fierce enough
to break the heart of unfeeling,
unloving, unopened?
and oh, did Jesus recall that desert moment
just before hunger struck him
when man’s inhumanity to man
leaned thrice on his shoulder
and whispered the one word
by which he might escape this putrid fate
of sipping deathwater?
if only, if only, if only he’d taken that offering
a mere three years ago—
one knee, that’s all it would’ve taken, just one,
maybe not even a knee
just a nod, a gulp,
a slouch of his shoulders,
maybe after being deprived
of touch, of food, of help,
that very hour
with barely a word
he could’ve breathed away
this fragrant fate wafting in his face?
it could’ve been so easy, so fast,
the most efficient way to get the kingdom going,
get those keys and get the world growing again,
while ever-knowing the fate of man
would lay fettered to the wrists of no human.
no, no, what he knew then he knew now,
he knew it three years deeper and so familiar
with man’s inhumanity, and who it was that tore
the soul so pure, entangling it with insanity,
in handcuffs of silver and gold,
promises unmade, cajoled,
the light of the godhead
darkened just enough
to curse the world he created
for a serpent and a son
for a battle lost to become a battle one
with deathwater dripping,
aromas of sweat and feces and failure
rising from dirt, breath still trapped inside earth.
and i wonder now,
if he swallowed hard and opened his ear
to hear that Voice in the garden
who drawing near
with a cup darker even than blood
personally denied the request
of the only Son of God,
sending angels instead to strengthen
the body and the soul
for when flesh is weak the spirit is full
of potential aching, shaking like the ripples
forming in water
dripping down his wrists
and splashing on the floor
of an ordinary room
in this late hour,
where the scents of lamb and bitter herbs
wafted over befuddled men’s beards
as they watched him undress
his cloak and sash
and in nakedness
wrap himself with the garments
of an ordinary servant
and smirk at the guests of his private banquet,
and the billions of faces those twelve represented;
was it anything to him to bow before the chosen,
and ache with the broken,
and wash the dirt once stolen
from the feet of adam,
lifted by his hand and touched, and held,
and known in this moment.
did Jesus cower, cajole, gripe or complain?
did he grimace, or sneer, or huff, or gag?
did he pause to consider
or did he already know,
what the blood and that body
could become when dipped low
in the blackest wrath
from his friends’ skin and soul
speaking a lesson still being glimpsed
and given over
and over and over
and over and over again?
“you do not realize now,” he said,
“but you shall understand,” and he bent,
and he bared, and he washed, and endured
with full obedience, knowing the smell, the faces,
the pigment of those whom God embraced
and gave to him.
he stepped into something
we’re only beginning to glimpse;
those who felt the touch of his hand,
the sound of his voice,
and watched him bow low,
spoke of this moment
only in whispers (and shouts)—
for now, you and i can only wonder with them,
our dear Jesus, what did You know?
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