Terra Sancta

My feet, bare, feel
        the holy ground.
Winter earth thawed by burning bush
        receives
                my knees,
                        then hands,
                                then face.
The real, the sacred weight -
        the gravity of grace.

Were you not Father, I would not
        dare request.
But you accepted gentle
        all I have confessed,
So I ask bold
        for taste, for sound, for sight.
Giver, grant
        my daily bread
                of grief and light.