Grace in the Flesh
An angel drifts with harp in hand,
A sound no ear can understand.
Its melody dissolves the wall
Between the rise and spirit’s fall.
This grace does not descend in flame—
It sings the soft, forgiving name.
And then her hands, in silence, wash—
His feet once caked in dust and ash.
No doctrine here, no high decree—
Just love made flesh in mystery.
The sacred act is low and clear—
The soul revealed in touch sincere.
