The ones who all came running
when He opened up His door.

The ones who understood Him
within a single word.

The ones He handed chains
to drape around their necks.

The ones who saw Him once
and turned away.

The ones who clustered at His naked feet
well into the dawn.

The ones who missed Him by an hour
for an unexpected reason.

The ones who heard that laughter
never before or since.

The ones whose bodies froze in place
as He bellowed to the walls.

The ones who married His skin,
and who now may wed His marrow.

The ones who endured
and the ones who could endure no more.

The ones who sang His names
even when alone.

The ones who found a perfect gift,
but lost the will to give it.

The ones who threw their bodies down—
faces in the grass.

The ones who wrote Him letters
to praise Him in the morning.

The ones who wept on sight
and never could do more.

The ones who calculated, calculated
He will live.

The ones who spoke the vows
no other can fulfill.

The ones who held umbrellas—
arms baking in the sun.

The ones who heard it all verbatim—
face to human face.

The ones who knew both latitude and longitude
but could not make arrangements.

The ones who live to tell their tale
to those who were not there.

The ones who gave Him daily news
of broken-hearted night.

The ones who buried Him inch by inch
on a summer afternoon.

The ones who called Him master
right into His eyes.

These ones.

The ones to whom,
if luck and fate conspire,

you will listen.