My soul Magdalene
Right up to where You sit,
in the high, the heavenly places,
behold, my whoring soul,
the Magdalene You had to free
not once, not twice, but at least a hundred times,
look, she comes to break
the stiff-necked glass jar of a stubborn will
and pour the oil of irrevocable surrender
in sacrificial wafts of perfume on Your feet.
My tears are scarce, my heart is drier than
the desert wind and harder than Your floor,
and Magdalene's unflinching, passionate devotion
got lost somewhere in the gravel
on the roads from feeling to faith.
All i have is me
poured out at Your feet.
All i want is to be
owned – known – by You.
All i want is never again,
never again to stray.
A/N: Ok, I know some say that the woman in Luke 7:36 ff., who washed Jesus' feet with her tears, dried them with her hair and anointed them with perfume, was not Mary Magdalene, but someone else – but does it really matter?