Magdalene
You think you know me.
Your assumptions call me
Adulteress,
Martha's sister,
Wasteful harlot bearing sweet perfume.
You assume you know the
Torturous indications
Of the demons that chased me,
Ripping at my soul.
I am accustomed
To your judgements.
Even in my own day,
I was woman.
Plague of men who
Deemed themselves
Esteemed by God,
Casting me into their
Gutters, unless, of course,
They wanted something.
Still, He touched ME.
He took my hand and
Led me down a path
To self respect
And healing.
Most judged Him,
Appalled by his lack of
Reverence for those
Who would rather stone
The likes of me.
They assumed, like you.
Even in this day
Of charitable churches,
Your temples filled with
Weapons of mass destruction
Of the souls you refuse to
Touch
And save.
Yet your Saviour
Touched me without
Concern of His own
Cleanliness.
There I was, only clean
By His acceptance,
Standing at the foot
Of His dying,
Weeping with so few,
While the rest of you
Ran and hid in fear
Of being seen with Him.
This you know
Without assumption.
I was sordid as the rest,
Lifted by His hand
To acceptance into
Our Father's kingdom.
One of the last to see
Him breath.
Along side Him
When he appeared
Crushed and unattractive.
And, in following
Him to His tomb,
I was the first to
See Him risen.