n Bethany’s quiet house, two paths unfold,
One breaks an alabaster jar of gold—
Pure spikenard cascades like tears of love,
Anointing head and feet of heaven’s Dove.

“She prepares Me for the grave,” the Master mild replies,
“Her deed will echo through the years, wherever My gospel flies.”
No calculation, no holding back the cost—
Just pure devotion, every drop is lost… yet never lost.

But nearby, silver whispers in a colder ear,
Thirty coins for blood, a bargain born of fear.
The same moment births both fragrance sweet and bitter gall—
One heart draws near in worship; one prepares to fall.

O Holy Wednesday, hold these mirrors to our soul:
Will we shatter self in love, or trade the Lord for gold?
Teach us, Savior, in this hush before the garden night,
To choose the breaking open, the perfume poured outright.

For though betrayal struck and pierced Your holy side,
Your mercy met the wound—You bore it, and You died.
The woman’s gift foreshadowed what the cross would fully prove:
That love poured out in fullness is the way that we are moved.