ANOTHER KIND OF HOST

There’s flour and water,
And perhaps a little salt.
A few sticks, fire, and a
Crumbling mud-bricked
Oven. The rest is kneaded
Through the work-worn
Hands of often unknown
Women, the much exploited
Mothers of the world.

And then they gather in an
Urban tenement, an Upper
Room, discreetly chosen,
Safe – if anywhere is left
That’s free from fear or
Ambiguity. They come from
Far and near: known and
Unknown, nameless and named.

Zimbabwe’s there, her faithful
People pleading for the rule of
Law. Libyans too, longing for
Freedom and another future.
They weep, the divided peoples
Of Sri Lanka, broken apart,
As bread is broken: aftermath of
War and racial arrogance.

Around the table too, hurting Jew
And Palestinian, struggling with
Their ancestry, a hospitality still
Longed for but denied. And from the
West, proud bankers sit in quiet
Contemplation of the ashes of their
Dreams. For all the world is there,
Where bread is broken, wine outpoured.

This broken bread “This is my Body”:
And in this cup, the pain and hurt of
All is poured – until the last sad drops
Are drained, and only love is left.
And then the waiting in the garden –
A betrayal in the deepest terrifying
Darkness – the anguished bloody
Dying: and the laying in a tomb….

….until?


Good Friday 2011