The Meal

 

The Meal

Gary B. Taylor

 

Go, prepare a place, he said.

We went and found a room

Small, cramped, dark, yet warm

We cooked, cleaned, and set it up

 

We waited. Late afternoon

The food was ready for their arrival

Lamb, cheese, fruit, and bread

And wine, dark red, thick, bittersweet

 

They arrived, from the noise of the crowd

Into the peace, calm of the room

Friends, followers, women, men

Places at the table ready

 

We ate. We drank. We laughed.

Expectations of High Holy Days

Lamb, crusty bread, sharp cheese

Sweet fruit. Wine filled the cups.

 

He spoke, softly then forcefully.

Friends, he said, this meal is for you.

This bread, my body. This wine, my blood.

You won’t understand. Soon you will.

 

One will betray. All will flee.

You, my friend, will deny.

Remember. Relive. And know

You are forgiven. You are the hope.

 

In silence we ate; the laughter gone.

As he got up to leave, he sang

An ancient song of redemption.

We left the meal while singing that song.

 

The meal. The body. The blood. The song.

The meal, the bread, the wine, and the song go on.