Monday, August 20, 2012

But among you are some who do not believe



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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