Who Follow

Wanderers have made swales in the stone stairs
in Jerusalem's dolorosa;
harrow of their penitence and prayers
lithoed to melt, candled to cry hosanna.

Water garments like flags at fountain side,
roots of knees to fuel the blooming deltoids,
with thrashing paddle on the tablet's hide
they've washed and world left; footing fuller's joy.

Last instant that his feet felt earth, the Son
left imprints on the hard hill; blameless soles
pierced and holy, that were ever missioned,
that dunned went to the soiled, and water strode.

Quarried crown in turn with pilgrim touching,
as sculptures whittled to bone at the woundings,
has gristed, hollowed more the mastered rock;
by the small who follow him, little flock.