I will not walk into work in the morning
With a forehead stained with burnt and stale hosannas;
No priest I know will bless me before sunrise
With the reminder of my frailty.
No, I will wear my ashes on knees that hate bending,
On hands that hate wounding–
In other words, the places you won’t see
Because they rub off where I’ve been
And you will only know my repentance by
The quiet trail I leave behind
While covered in red and sand as I go
Follow Him into the desert for a while.