At His Feet
I cannot beat the trails,
Or trim the wind-taut sails,
Or pitch a camp beside the dusty road.
I cannot tame the crowd,
Or reprimand the proud,
Or offer strength to bear your heavy load.
I have a woman’s heart,
And play a woman’s part,
Attending to the tasks of house and fare.
I hunger for some way,
Some gesture just to say,
I love you Jesus, and I truly care.
You’ve shown us so much life
And spared us all your strife,
Retreating from our home to pour your heart
Out in the hills of prayer,
To meet your Father there,
To gain His strength before you must depart.
I grieved your love before,
When you had planned much more
Than simply curing Lazarus’ ill health.
I wept that you came late,
That you would hesitate,
But you were bringing resurrection wealth!
And here we are again
At table with you, friend,
And I can sense the heaviness of sin
Weighs doubly on you now,
As you reflect on how
The final ministry will soon begin.
The ointment in my hand,
A rare and precious brand,
Seems all I have right now of worth to share.
And so I wash your feet
With fragrance rich and sweet,
And wipe them clean and dry with my long hair.
I know this is not waste,
Though Judas jeers with haste:
“The money could have gone to feed the poor!”
But you have read my heart,
My urge to play some part
In love’s anointing ere you reach death’s door.
Again I’m at your side,
While others harp and chide:
“There’s much work to be done, no time to rest.”
But here your eyes meet mine
In fellowship divine,
Assuring that in this I share your best!
MARK 14: 8, 9
She hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying. Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her.