Here sits The Christ. Plainly he is tired, Road-weary and rumpled, Red and purple robes Plainly uncomfortable, Collected as they have in decorative folds. Such is the awkward grandeur of being The Christ, always iconic, always called upon for petty miracles. Take this captured moment. Mary, the Magdalene, uncorked a bottle of nard--not the cheap stuff, mind-- to pour on The Christ's feet. Excessive, but, women, always pouring nard on The Christ. The men, more pragmatic, not expecting an act of God, said, sell the nard. You could feed a family of six for a month, with nard like that. But who can reason with a fierce, untamed faith? The perfume flooded the floor. She washed The Christ's feet with a rush of precious liquid, fragrant and beyond price, ceaseless as summer, flowing in endless cascade into the hungry stone.