by Sue Stone
How white the linen
they laid out
at first.
How clean the water was
in its ewer,
waiting to be poured.
How fresh the towel.
Loving hands though,
soon turned the waters
ruby red
in a vain attempt
to erase some of the terrors of the day.
Sweet spice could not wholly
cover up the smell
of blood,
of pain,
of death,
of the cost of redemption.
Loving hands, though,
wrapped the linen snugly
over his prostrate form,
as if in final gesture,
a last farewell,
letting the whiteness of the sheet
turn what color it would,
Loving hands
never knowing
what image
their care
would leave behind.