If You Wish

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.