The red runs through it.
It gets on everything.
Levitical priests up to their hems and elbows in blood trying to make everything clean from the inside out.
First the bleating, then the bleeding.
Temple rooms filled with a sweet blood pungent splattered everywhere.
Red flecked on dishes and silverware and walls and altars.
How did anything ever come clean? Having scrubbed at the end of the day was there a missed drop on the cheek? On the sleeve cuff? Under the nails of fingers? Did it matter if the sacrificing had to be done all over again anyway?
I am a thief.
I have stolen the spotlight, the credit, the entitlement package.
I have stolen minutes, hours, days for myself.
I have stolen glances at what was not meant for me.
Yet I have whispered with that other thief:
Remember me, Jesus, when You come into Your Kingdom.
How could I think He would ever forget.
See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.
God’s words for a wayward people. Surely, I will never forget you.
See, He has taken on an engraving, a piercing.
It is the only way I have been able to come clean.