Thus, Jesus, I behold your feet again

that were a young man’s feet when I, with fear,

stripped them of their shoes and washed them down;

how they stood, entangled in my hair

like a white stag within a bush of brier.

Thus I behold your never-cherished limbs

in this, our night of love, and not before.

We never lay in one another’s arms,

and now I’ll only watch you and admire.

But, look, beloved, your poor hands are torn—

and not by me, not love-bites of my own.

Your heart stands wide for all to enter in:

it should have been a door for me alone.

You’re weary, and your weary mouth has now

no longing for my mouth, that aches for you.

O Jesus, Jesus, when was our time? How

curiously we’re perishing, we two.