His broken body lit faith’s fuse,
my paper-thin faith he won’t refuse;
he seeks repair, hates to scold,
prayer punctuated, typeface bold.
Swallowed slow the broken bread –
whispered low, priest words said,
small portion still difficult to swallow:
eat, He said, suffering will follow.
Silver chalice lifted, hesitant lips,
slanted slightly so that I can sip,
holy the hands that tip it up,
wine warmed, unsavored such cup.
Biblical blood holds healing power,
don’t be coward, don’t head-cower:
slate wiped clean, once-slave to sin,
empty tombs laugh, see God grin!
What you must solemnly realise is that every time you eat this bread
and every time you drink this cup, you reenact in your words and actions
the death of the Master – 1 Corinthians 11: 26
image: Mahmoud Qoqyan http://goo.gl/fQHdXh