She did not wait for tomb or stone, but came while breath was still her own. With tender hands and silent grace, she touched His feet, not His face.
A vial broke — the room was filled with sweetness none could bottle or build. She spoke no word, but love was there, in perfume rising through the air.
Judas scolded, silver-eyed, but love had nothing left to hide. The cost was high — and gladly spent; her heart, her oil, her worship went.
The Song had said: His name is poured, like fragrant oil the soul adored. And so she poured — and so He knew: a crown of scent, before the dew.
Let others wait till death has come — she crowned Him early, and was done. And now her name, like perfume rare, still lingers soft upon the air. — John 12