© Avril VanderMerwe
Like the grime of an ancient traveler
At the end of the footsore day
I have accumulated on my feet
The dust of roads I have trod.
Step after step-chafed blisters have
Broken to leak muddied tears
Along trails ragged with bruised
Hope urging me on one more climb
To the cool space of an upper room.
Pierced hands pierce the gloom.
A splash of water pools my feet.
Washed by love on bended knees. I weep.