He looks at the dust in his workshop
the dust from all he has made for us,
he looks at the dust of the desert,
as he faces his lonely, wilderness days for us.
He looks at the dust on the faces of the people,
so many of us, lost and hungry for change,
he looks at the dust across the floor,
as he kneels to wash our encrusted feet.
he looks at the dust now turning to mud,
the red colour of redemption,
dappled and transformed by his hillside sacrifice.
He looks at the dust in the garden,
as he breathes in the new air,
his lungs full of resurrection,
as he waits for us to discover him.
He looks at the dust under his nails,
in the creases of his palms and feet,
the dust in the folds of his clothes,
the dust of God with us. Always.

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