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After the Last Supper

The dirt mingled in the water. Three years’ worth.

Even the traitor’s. Even the denier’s. (Already named at the table— for there is no past, present, or future in one who is older than time.)

Peter resisted. Would I have also?

Said no to my king bowed low, towel in hand, wiping the dust of the earth he owns?

The foot-worn mud and grime of past, present, and future dissolve in baptismal waters.


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