The Highest Honor

Ambassador.  Soldier.  Saint.  Last.  Doulos.  The meal served.  The betrayer gone.  A heaviness hangs over the room.  Without fanfare He rises to remove His outer robe.  Stripped down to a servant.  Steady hands gather a bowl filled with water.  A cloth for drying wraps His waist.  No, Master, never wash me.  Appalled at the idea of a King Who serves the least of these.  Gracefully and fully grace, He kneels before them.  Tenderly, lovingly, intimately He cups each filth-stained foot in His capable hands.  The One that created is making them new.  Confusion.  Discomfort.  Uneasiness.  The water flows over the grime of life.  All too soon, the blood will flow.