Mountain Feast

a poem for Holy Week

Did you think of that so far-off feast
as you washed your brothers’ feet?
Dreamed-of dinner on the mountain
for the far-flung tribes of men?

You will spread the richest food,
lay out the well-aged wine so new,
wine you have refined for all
the wandering souls you came to find.

You washed their feet,
drank of the vine,
said you wouldn’t drink again—
until you drink with us anew
in your victorious kingdom.

You swallowed wrath,
that bitter cup,
took the red whip’s marks of dread,
wore sharpened thorns,
and bore our curse
on your kingly head.

You swallowed sin,
and now we wait
until the perfect end
when you’ll swallow up,
in one great gulp,
that ugly veil of death.

You’ll make it disappear,
you who died so we might live,
and we’ll sing and eat
and dance our feet,
breathe in and out, relief full deep
while you wipe away all tears.

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