The Last Supper

It was another meal;

The last one, it turned out

With them all together.

They came in noisily,

Raising their voices

as birds in the city –

trying too hard, harsh sounds,

Sounds ready for a fight.

 

Whilst we had swept the floor

and prepared the table,

no one had spoken.

The street sounds frightened us

and we found our comfort

in the domestic chores,

in the dust marking time

in the shafts of sunlight.

 

We watched from the doorway

to hear his battle cry –

“This is my body broken

For you, my blood shed for you.”

A strange call to arms

turning them to silence,

to meet with their own souls

in all their confusion.

 

And I thought that this man

had a woman’s wisdom;

the wisdom of weakness,

the strength of hopeless love,

unflinching truth marking time

in the shafts of sunlight.