Jar of Nard

I am the jar of nard poured out

In reckless, excessive, extravagant waste

Poured out upon my Beloved

In tears of grief too deep for words

Mingling its sweet aroma with

The spike of death.

I am the weeping woman so distracted

So focused by Love that no price is too great —

The pearl is priceless, after all.

Accused, condemned, misunderstood,

Deviant, destroyed, abused in Love I weep

My hair far too short to wipe

The feet of this One Life.

Are there other less expensive, less foolish

Uses for the cost of this perfume, this gift?

This tiger that rips me apart, then together?

Indisputable.

Undoubtedly.

Obviously.

But my Beloved says

It is beautiful.

Photo credit: westernseminary.edu via Google images