What do your pale eyes see, lady?

Not what is before you surely, but past

Or future benedictions.

You blessed a man with your salty tears, kissed his weary feet

Dutifully, then dried them with your red tresses.

Red, for rebelliousness Mary, as your moniker proclaims.

To me, you were a victim of calumny. 

Your foresight and beauty poured scorn upon you,

For in your obescience you surrendered to Him,

As he surrendered to others in his time.

You gave of yourself entirely, yea even

The telling of your story- thrown to the wind.

Others told it, who would have had you kneel before them.

There are those would call you sinner. Fallen woman. 

Whore. I put you on a Beatified pedestal, lady.

It matters not to me if you

Were  lady of the night, for

You cleansed him with the fluids of your own body,

when others spent theirs inside of you.

You granted him the ultimate gift-the fruits of all your joy and sorrow.

Your tears, mixed with musky Spikenard.

Gazing now I watch you,

Alabaster cup poised to catch your nourishing tears,

Ere you blessed his feet,

Worshipping them,

That blessed the ground they walked upon.


© Tom Tide 2016




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