Mary took a pound of costly perfume
made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet,
and wiped them with her hair.
The disciples don’t understand,
too sure of themselves to imagine the tomb,
to feel the sting, the ache.
Feeling the dullness of his friends
and the harshness of the crowd,
the stone of loneliness,
heart breaking for the Beloved,
for the utter loss they begin to share already,
the gutting of the tomb
already being dug in her heart,
she performs a miracle:
in the shadow of the cross
an act of thoughtful kindness.
Jesus, may I be your Mary.
Let this be the whole of my religion:
to feel the ache of those who suffer
and to offer kindness against cruelty.
Let this be my worship:
simply to be kind.