Four Score Years



These are the feet of a daddy who climbed a ladder to lower himself.

He humbled himself, quietly, in his old workboots and jeans, with a hammer and nails one July afternoon.

To serve his oblivious child.

With his farmer’s hands, Dad repaired what I could not, because he knew the surprise-guests would soon be arriving, and I, in my Sunday-best, would feast shameless in his wake.

As he did it, he spoke silently of the One who descended to earth – to raise us to heaven, all inverted-like.

Of the One who wrapped a towel around His waist, and knelt, to wash my dusty feet.

Of the One who with hammer and nails served me, His oblivious child – before I could perceive my own need.

Of the One who repairs in me what I am powerless to restore, so that I may feast at last all Sunday-clad in the wake of His grace.

These are the feet of the one who introduced me to the Milky Way – and to the One who spilled those stars across the void.

Those stars which speak, all crystalline-tinkling, of the Voice who spoke them into visible diamond-words.

“How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news of good things!”


“…the word of Christ.” (Romans 10:15, 17 NASB)

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