The Servant, 33   


tired and dusty,
– i have walked the streets
of despair and adversity –
blinded by the storm’s drumbeat
looking for a place of rest
i stumble into a stable;
my heart filled with unrest,
my instincts that of an animal.
i find straw for a bed
(not aware of Him)
i lay down my heavy head
and the world grows strangely dim:
i feel strong hands
gently lifting my weak, filthy body
i battle to understand
– Who would dare touch me so lovingly?! –
i fearfully open my eyes
finding myself in an empty manger,
i look into the eyes of The Crucified
as He kneels before my crude manger.
slowly He holds my feet
and in a gentle caress washes
clean the dirt and the grime of the street.
tears run down my cheek in ugly blotches,
– full of shame –
i watch as they fall
On the shoulders of Him who became
The Servant so that I may be called Royal.
Smiling – he wraps my feet
in royal cloth of white –
He wipes the trail of tears from my cheek
and tenderly embraces me in His Light
I succumb to His Love – newly cleansed and replete

© All Rights Reserved Kim Koning

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KK ink

Writer | Poet | Wanderer | Insomniac Writer.In.Procaffeination ... between real deadlines and imagined deadbodies Survives on coffee. Eats Poetry for Breakfast.

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