The Passion: Maunday Thursday


Nothing is pure

that has not fallen.

Be an apple petal on a stream,

a pale seed

in the mother-brown furrow.

Be a spark of the iron hammer

on the lock of the prison door,

lamb's blood on the lintel,

the silent footstep

of a slave

escaping in haste at night.

If you cannot stay

for one hour,

stay for now

and be whole.

Nothing crushed

in these green shadows

can fail to rise.

Be the glut of a rain drop

on the mouth of a lily,

the starry wine that pours

into the small cups

of your own body.

Breathe Christ

through the broken places.

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