Meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s anointing

 A meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s Anointing

Perfume

They were a people aware of smell as we are not.

Thinking ourselves safe in our sanitised 

and oh so hygienic ways we lose so much.

They lived breathing the breath of Mother Earth,

exhaled in a myriad of mists, miasmas and myrrhs;

the Fisherfolk and their slimy shining scales 

the Shepherds and their greasy fleeces, 

Merchants fogged by clouds of spices, 

and Lepers with their cracked and bleeding skins;

above them all, perhaps, the incense fumed robes of Priests

hiding the metal edge of blood poured out upon the altar stone; 

so they lived and died with their own fragrance 

woven into the warp and woof of cloth and skin and lives, 

to say nothing of the sun’s sweat upon the brow and back 

of middle eastern days.

How it must have exploded then, this perfume,

as with the cracking of the sealed white urn 

the ointment poured out, slow as sunrise, 

felt not just upon His feet but in the air, 

the precious nard,

that held within itself the living breath 

of flowers and herbs 

announcing their ancient edenic essence, 

pouring its power into nose and throat and lungs, 

silencing the room with this sacrament of scent, 

at once so sacred and so animal, 

singing its old song to both soul and sense alike. 

Stored long and held precious 

by the Woman for so many days,  

a gift perhaps, taken down 

only to be put back until the appointed time; 

not yet, not yet, she might have said, 

waiting for the heart’s movement as only women wait.

Until today, when He visits once again this blessed Bethany, 

this place of peace and miracle of friendship, 

watered with His laughter and His tears, 

for sisters two and reborn brother all. 

Perhaps she sees in Him the weary dusting of the road, 

perhaps a presentiment of the future way appears, 

no matter what spurs the gift, 

it is given freely as grace is given, 

becoming a deeper grace in that very giving, 

now an omen, to point the way toward the path of pain, 

a knight’s anointing for the combat coming

for Him who is already thrice anointed, 

priest, prophet, king,

yet named anew for death by perfumed oil’s cool touch,

as with her tears and hair she wipes His feet in welcome

liturgy of love that breaks the bounds of law 

and silences all but one, 

whose sense and soul are long since dulled 

to all but self, causing the Word Himself 

to speak and make it known that Love 

itself permits this scenting scene as prophecy

and extravagance, earth’s last gift for Him 

who in its scent song tastes all the notes 

and knows again the touch 

of crib remembered cooling myrrh, 

and its long foretelling tomb, 

for which the time has now at last, arrived.

His feet anointed for the journey He must take

so all may at last attain their home, 

He will become

the perfumed ointment for our healing, 

the fragrant offering, 

the incense burned and offered up.

(Picture by Daniel F Gerhertz)