Washing Feet

The Prince came in with royal robes,
and having walked down many stairs
descending from His golden throne,
removed His regal gown and airs
and wore His holiness alone.

He gleamed more bright than whitest white
though in a world that knew Him not,
dead in its heart and in its mind,
it boasted life but reeked of rot.
The Light had come to blind mankind.

He came to me and spoke with care,
but I could not respond in kind.
Dead like the rest, what then of life
knew I? Its brightness I maligned,
contented with continued strife.

Yet humbly He sat down in dust
and wrote a few things in the sand.
He took a bowl and washing sheet,
continuing with purposed plan,
the Prince knelt down and washed my feet.

But Sir! I said in frightened voice
Please do not do this lowly deed;
You should regain your princely seat.
They're not that soiled; there's no need-
And I myself can wash my feet.

Despite my protest He went on,
disgraceful soles He took in hand
I did not know my sin so great-
the more He washed, the more demand-
and from my soles He bore the weight.

Now as the blackened dirt washed off,
I watched as it then turned to blood.
He washed my feet, but then He bled
from where His garments washed the mud,
His body taking pain instead.

I did not understand the cost
before I looked into His eyes,
and I then realized with disgust
that He had taken my demise
and there He lay dead in the dust.

'Twas my iniquity for which He died;
He Himself was damned and I - justified.