Broken Vases
by Ken Gire

The aroma of extravagant love.
So pure. So lovely.
Flowing from the veined alabaster vase
of Mary's broken heart.
A heart broken against the hard reality
of her Savior's imminent death.

Mingled with tears, the perfume became,
by some mysterious chemistry of Heaven,
not diluted but more concentrated.
Potent enough behind the ears of each century
for the scent to linger to this day.

Doubtless, the fragrance, absorbed by his garment
as it flowed from his head,
Accompanied Christ through the humiliation of his trial,
the indignity of his mockings,
the pain of his beatings,
the inhumanity of his cross.
Through the heavy smell of sweat and blood,
A hint of that fragrance must have arisen
from his garment,
Until, at shameful last, the garment was stripped
and gambled away.

And maybe, just maybe, it was that scent
amid the stench of humanity rabbled around the cross,
that gave the Savior the strength to say:
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

And as Mary walked away from the cross,
The same scent probably still lingered in the now-limp hair
she used to dry the Savior's feet.
A reminder of the love that spilled
from his broken alabaster body.
So pure. So lovely.
So truly extravagant.
It was a vase he never regretted breaking.
Nor did she.

Ken Gire, Windows of the Soul, Zondervan 1995

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