Those hands that take the bread and wine
Are ordinary but special too. They are the same
As everyone else’s. Like his. Yet it’s been decided somehow –
We know the system and the process, but not the why -
To allow those fingers to take the elements and, by grace,
Embody all that for those who gather.
So much thought can be made to gather
Around those staples: bread and, for the drinker, wine
Which, still to some people’s amazement, are preceded by Grace
Before the meal. And after too. The same
Word but a different form of words. Why
That should be God-ponderers can work out somehow.
Because it is the sum of this that somehow
Breaks through the presence of those who gather
For just that – brokenness – when, how and why
Is still the work of those Theo-thinkers, who wine
And dine on ideas that chew over the same
Simple stuff of wheat and grape which grace
The ornate tables and ordinary altars that speak of grace.
Unbroken in crushed and strained grape and grain, somehow
Surviving as they are, but turning in the hearts of the same
Worthy but still unworthy recipients. The crumbs of life gather
To collect with drips of bloodied fruit, fortified wine
That fortifies the gathered. All given in love. Love? Why
Else would we need to know the why
And wherefore of this sustaining grace
That sees now your hands – holy hands – fumble with wafer and wine,
Jittery, as the stumbling firsts of all actions, somehow
Emboldened when body and mind seek to gather
The lost threads of dead darkness transformed? The same
Yesterday, today and tomorrow. A time of same-
Ness shattered in love. That is why
We need to recall the events done once for all. We gather
To celebrate the living death story of his grace
That, other-worldly as it must be, is somehow
Made manifest each earthly time in bread and wine.
The prayers we gather over bread and wine
Are newly the same endlessly in time. Why? Somehow
In every time and clime, he leads us to embrace his grace.
* - there is a commentary of sorts on this poem
Are ordinary but special too. They are the same
As everyone else’s. Like his. Yet it’s been decided somehow –
We know the system and the process, but not the why -
To allow those fingers to take the elements and, by grace,
Embody all that for those who gather.
So much thought can be made to gather
Around those staples: bread and, for the drinker, wine
Which, still to some people’s amazement, are preceded by Grace
Before the meal. And after too. The same
Word but a different form of words. Why
That should be God-ponderers can work out somehow.
Because it is the sum of this that somehow
Breaks through the presence of those who gather
For just that – brokenness – when, how and why
Is still the work of those Theo-thinkers, who wine
And dine on ideas that chew over the same
Simple stuff of wheat and grape which grace
The ornate tables and ordinary altars that speak of grace.
Unbroken in crushed and strained grape and grain, somehow
Surviving as they are, but turning in the hearts of the same
Worthy but still unworthy recipients. The crumbs of life gather
To collect with drips of bloodied fruit, fortified wine
That fortifies the gathered. All given in love. Love? Why
Else would we need to know the why
And wherefore of this sustaining grace
That sees now your hands – holy hands – fumble with wafer and wine,
Jittery, as the stumbling firsts of all actions, somehow
Emboldened when body and mind seek to gather
The lost threads of dead darkness transformed? The same
Yesterday, today and tomorrow. A time of same-
Ness shattered in love. That is why
We need to recall the events done once for all. We gather
To celebrate the living death story of his grace
That, other-worldly as it must be, is somehow
Made manifest each earthly time in bread and wine.
The prayers we gather over bread and wine
Are newly the same endlessly in time. Why? Somehow
In every time and clime, he leads us to embrace his grace.
* - there is a commentary of sorts on this poem
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