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.
A Glass of Pure Water
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