The Wine Warmed

The Wine Warmed

(“Then he said, ‘This wine is my blood, which will be poured out for many to begin the new agreement from God to his people.’” Mark 14:24)

Your life, man of all People, touched our lips and
sealed our fate as You offered wine-called-blood
and ended the meal with a hymn and a walk
and a prayer in a garden. We were chilled,
(the room was warm with body heat and anxious sweat)
the path was old
(did David plant the olive stands; did Joshua see the hill?)
the walk was common as You told, again,
the plan to unchain our petty machinery to hear
the Father’s cosmic poetry

In the Son, the Only One, tonight You spoke it
as if it were done. And we took our rest like
Jacob, heads upon the stones while You wept
and plead alone.

Your death, image of all Divine, touched our lips and
peeled the curtains from our eyes; You gave thanks mere
hours
before You suffered. The wine warmed in Your hands,
the seed created in and through and by the Son, planted
by an honest gardener, filled with earth’s dark loam,
sky’s bright glow, and crushed beneath anonymous feet
to brighten the eyes of the hopeful.

In Your hands You knew the spill would not be swept,
but run red carving its own path past analogies, old realities,
and creating space for waiting; 2 days waiting;

For the Son, the Only One, who broke with morning
and it was done. And we take our rest like
conscious creatures who know the secret behind
every celebration and every yarn ever spun that

Hinted there was more, much more, under the sun.