She wore pearls, saw angels, said nothing.
Dizzied by the circus come to church without the big tent,
she stood deathly still. Still in shock? Perhaps. Or
did unspeakable sadness hold her in its grip
that suffocating day?

Pomp and circumstance set aside – they
must get on with what must be done – her accusers draw
near. Their eyes swirling pools of darkness, their
spirits reek of pharisaic precision of purpose,
unquestionable pride.

So many lined up that hot day for a chance
to see the shunning, public condemnation of her sinning ways.
Righteous ones clamored, eager, so eager, to cast
an early stone or stick the stake into her flesh and twist
as it began to bake.

They could’ve raffled off the opportunity,
sold tickets, made a killing. Oh, that’s right, but they did that
anyway. They killed her, heretic holy, misfit member,
lunatic visionary, prostitute prophet, martyr
minister, sinner saint.

But let’s not stop there, with her death. Let’s
dislodge the logs from our eyes. There. Now, let’s see clear
those who stood watching from afar at the fringe.
Thirsty, they tasted vinegar thrust at her
as she pleaded for grace.

Hungry for bread of life, some watched as they
starved her and an innocent lamb of affection, as they
killed her for her love. For her love. They turned,
eyes cast down and walked away.
Having come to see,

to know if Jesus really saves, to find a way to
abundant life, they left with only more despair. One will never
make it back to get a second look. He walked straight
into swirling pools of darkness, deemed death
great victor over life.

I know. I know. You weren’t there. Your hands, clean.
Besides, she was dirty. Anyone could see specks tall as trees
It’s been so long… she is just a fleck of dust upon our past.
Or perhaps a grain of sand God will use for chafing 
the Church's oyster shell.