God normally does laundry on a Monday,

except for once, when he looked at creation

one Friday to find the universe stained gray

and black with filth beyond all recognition.

The mess could not wait;

black tar wreaked havoc as murder, lies, divorce, and all obscenity

had soaked the world with hate, but the fabric of space-time was too

delicate for the machine. But God did laundry anyway.

He washed reality by hand, even as sin-dark stains leeched

and burned the open wounds on his wrists.

When he took up the washboard, he knew the cost.

He also knew the chore would be worth the pain

the moment he saw creation clean,

sans sin.