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This is a poem about faith—not the loud kind, not the polished, performative kind—but the kind that stays. The kind that holds space when there are no words, no hymns, no easy answers. It questions the value of public worship if compassion is absent on quieter days. It centres on a Christ who washed feet, not reputations. A faith that doesn’t need to be shouted, only lived. In a world where belief is too often used as a weapon or a shield, this poem returns us to something more human. More tender. A call to stay soft, even when the world hardens. A call to show up—not with noise, but with presence. Comparable works include St. Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell; Love (III) by George Herbert; The Waking by Theodore Roethke; What I Meant to Say by Rachel Wiley