Believing in the miracle: 
the dusty feet, gritty hem, 
roughnesses of linen, healing 
hands cool and smooth to the 
touch, and sad, glinting eyes 
that need no words to speak -

these were him, that week 
I met him and followed, 
for a while, the dusty crowds 
singing and groaning.  The hill 
was tramped bare, olive trees 
clung there, twisted and

sparsely-laden while he spoke of 
food for the body, food for the soul. 
We brought wine with us, and 
bread - we shared them with those 
near us while he said we were 
blessed for being poor - no-one

had said that before: that we have 
more value than the rich 
who chase and choose the wrong things. 
We are blessed by death, he said, 
the price we pay for love - we will 
inherit our portion, for we

receive back what we put in. 
As long as we hunger and 
thirst for what is right: God is 
with us.  If we show kindness 
we will receive it in our turn: 
in striving to be pure a God burns.

We must strive for peace, co- 
operation and harmony, for in these 
does our race survive.  If we 
are reviled, it comes from 
jealousy and fear - it makes us 
powerful in our tears.

He told us not to be afraid 
but to help one another and 
live our days in the sun, with joy. 
He said things, in time, will change 
for all revolutions wax and wane 
to God's ends.  He seemed tired

and glad to be done, his hands outstretched
blessed us as the wind caught his
linen and turned it
about his body, his friends near him
looking on, smiled, and rose
as one, to support him as he

slowly began to move away, and
the crowds about us stirred
and spoke, gathering belongings, children,
standing, moving, heading
for home.  He left us then, I
stood and watched him as they

walked away, followed by some, 
but who faltered and stood, 
letting him go.  They moved slowly 
through the trees, their white 
linens glowing in the sun.  A 
special man, I thought, if ever there 
			was one.
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