Devoutly I believe
in the gospel-grace
of her tired feet.

I bow to the commandments
(or are they beatitudes?)
of her ten bare toes.

After her long wanderings,
I will be John the Baptist
unlatcheting her sandals.

My soul shall glorify
her aching extremities
resting in my lap.

This heft is light,
this burden sweet:
the weight of tenderness.