by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
a crimson drip
more precious
glints
that sunlight
in
from fingertip
and falls
so far
to thirsty ground
the next diverted
spreads
to downy hair
pricked up by colder breeze
skin not ptotected by a sleeve
but harshly bared
and wet
so sore
blood stained
tear choked
ooze from wounds score
did anyone
think to extend
a hand
to catch that dear warm blend
of liquids
or did horror
stop
the thought to save
life's saving drop
Veronica alone did sop
and clean Your face
nor reach the top
to touch and soothe cpould those who waited
as the afternoon grew late
with dying light and hours the same
when You removed from me
all blame
Beloved
I tabernacle make
of each spilled atom
for our sake
if only those I think about
and see when face You show
or out of pity I on others' face
dry blood, sweat, tear
as take Your place
the suffering unable to care for themselves
I treat for You
and thus Your skin I wipe and kiss
You made of me a nurse for this