A moment held in the balm of dusk,
the leper’s voice softly piercing,
“If you wish, you can make me clean.”
Not demanding, but a confession,
a plea wrapped in humble linen,
acknowledging a sovereign helm.
He stands there, not in anguish,
but in a quiet recognition,
the way a wilted flower faces,
a sun that might gift it rain.
Every syllable, a delicate feather,
brushing against the realm unseen,
the lordship of someone greater,
the sovereignty draped in silence.
That countryside moment slowing,
to the pulse of an ancient hymn,
a scene bathed in trembling faith,
\"If you wish, you can make me clean.\"
Jesus, the quiet answer forming,
an unspoken command in air,
a soft echo of authority,
rippling through the twilight vast.
Healing, not commanded, but gifted,
like a breath weaving through leaves,
transforming ordinary dust to,
a precious strand of eternity.