I wring the towel into the bowl
And cannot tell – is this the water that I drew
Or are these my salty tears?
Once again, I wipe his torso,
On which he wore the shirt I made
and spilled the wine on that first wearing.
I wipe his legs and recollect
the journeys to Jerusalem
on that dusty road…
I wipe his arm and in my memory
see the embrace for his guest – Our Lord!
What joy he had to welcome Him.
I bathe his shoulder – that carried us
these many years, through invaded times.
What will we do? Without you?