He was being kind.
Even among those who so eagerly sing
his songs, wear
his shining silver jewellery, don
his tee-shirts, and who grumble
self-righteously that the fabric of society
has been irreparably torn;
there are many of us
who will not allow ourselves to believe.
We do not eat the body;
the blood we do not drink.
The precisely cubed crumb of bread,
the broken wafer,
the fragment torn from a loaf;
the silver chalice,
the cup of wine,
the tiny glass of grape juice,
hygienically prepared, red and sweet;
these safe things we will consume
in neat and reassuring patterns.
We fear the bread that is his words,
irregular, wild and costly;
having nibbled at the edge
we shall leave it our plates.
The cup of his outpouring;
we sipped cautiously, tasted its bitter
draught
and determinedly placed it to one side.
His difficult words invite us to dine upon
him,
to take life deep within our own;
and allow his being to be woven into ours.
Thus we receive his generous life,
crimson with sorrow, love and weeping.
Take courage; eat and drink, he whispers
once more.
© Ken Rookes 2012
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