A trail of coffee drips from counter to floor,
the cup in pieces, the cookie in crumbles.
Broken and spilt.
I quickly get the broom and sponge
to hide away all traces of disorder and imperfection.
I make myself useful, Good Housekeepingly Successful.
I am restored back to my own sense of order.
At the cross, Lord, you were broken and spilt out.
If I had been there, would I have rushed in too quickly
to gather up the pieces before someone stepped on them and got hurt?
Would I have taken my sponge and wiped away
the stain of your blood upon the wood before it set,
before it could do its redeeming work?
Would I have waited in that moment of seeming chaos and despair
until you restored the world back to your sense of order?
Would I have realized that you were the exchange –
the stain of my sins absorbed by the stain of your blood?
Broken and spilt out.
Of all the stains, blood is the hardest to get out.