Can you take this mother-wretch and make me holy?
Not for my sake, but for theirs?
I can live with my ugliness, but they do not deserve to.
Take the bitter, the sharp, the crushing,
and make me sweet, smooth, uplifting.
There must be grace for this,
grace greater than the gaping hole of my failures.
There must be holiness for this,
holiness purer than my puffed-up self and gnashing flesh.
Holiness for them.
Not for me to spit and polish and show off –
But for their beauty.
Only your spit and mud salve can make me see,
make me clean, make me a fitting funnel for your kindness.
Oh Lord, you who wash our feet,
let me stoop with you awhile.
Let me not lord over them with my airs,
but serve them with your graces.
Even now you pour the water on my cracks and callouses,
reminding me where the power of authority begins.
I will lay aside the garment of my false entitlement.
Toe by toe, you make what I have trampled into holy ground.
Hear the heart’s cry – Not only my feet, but my hands and head as well.
When I am at the end of myself, you can begin, even again.
Let me love them to your ends.