I sit before him, apologetically.
Aware of hirsute legs, uneven nails
I cringe at his touch, insecure,
embarrassed, chagrined.
How can I ask for a pedicure now?
I remember the compulsion
to clean the house before the maid.
Jesus acted the servant, washing feet
as future saints cringed, demurred,
unwilling, ashamed.
I am not worthy. I deserve no such favor.
But grace takes no measure of merit,
only of love, of acceptance, of yes.
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