Shepherds worship
the shepherd of souls;
disciples through generations
stand in fear
behold the cross.
A sick woman touches the robe of her healer
and I
stand at a distance, seeing these things
touch the robe of those
who have gone before
touch theirs
touching yet others—
a multitude
gazing at this awful event
to stop the cross
we could not.

Standing at a distance, beholding these things
I join the shepherds
touch a robe
am healed and give thanks
for an empty tomb
and deserted grave clothes.

Together—at a distance—hand to brow
join the throng—yet to behold this thing
the glory of the one true king.