On the third day after my member was mortified in Your mollification sent You three messengers to me;
I ran and undid the straps of their tireless feet,
Those feet my sand-like enumerated children would emulate
In praise to You five millenia after our compact, Lord,
“Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh….”
“Holy, Holy, Holy….”
As I made them to be,
Knowing not their celestial origination but seeking solace in the wisdom of stuff You Created,
Grateful for a chance to serve You, as You Serve,
In Lovingkindness, sans seeking satisfaction aside in the act of giving itself.
The leather is new, as though never worn,
my first clue these three were not what they seem;
So little sand stuck to their sandals,
As though they’d not walked the leagues to this tent that stands in the stead of an oasis;
But still I scrub, as though there was a satisfaction in scouring itself,
As though heaven’s doors could be found between their supposed toes,
That solace could be crept into in the somber supplication of sweat and soil and the suffocation of detrius,
That salvation was something to be had here, scraped off strangers’ shoes.
And they speak strangeness, evoking laughter out of Sarah,
Should so old a womb sojourn nine months and bear fruit,
Should miracles come from the words of seeming mortals,
Not prophets, not of men in a caravan, but footmen on falseness,
So peculiar, their very being here a contradiction?
So they depart, on the sounds of merriment for a more morbid task,
To smite Sodom, to unfold Gommorah from the face of the earth,
On shoes suddenly worn with the weight of their task,
They are sworn to their work, to turn the hearts of heathens that won’t bend in their ways,
Wastrels that warrant restitution for their sins,
So contrary to my own ways,
Seeking the shoes of strangers turned from town,
Set on their way onward, never straying from the path –
But at least Sodomites don’t laugh their guests away.