The Table

PART I

Wood worked

                Metal biting

                Hammer singing

                Dark the staining

Legs strong

                Load uplifting

                Undergirding

                Worthy sentries

Words etched

                Ancient, holy

                Deep the cutting

                Silent speaking

Lives long

                Weekly serving

                Generations

                Friend to sinners

Meal served

                Blood and Body

                Poured out, broken

                Given for you

Eat, Drink

                For remembrance

                Grace for faithful

                Kingdom coming

PART II

Wood warped

                Big and bulky

                Holding flowers

                Like a coffin

Face scarred

                Storied scratches

                Hidden beauty

                Now an eyesore

Words etched

                Like a prophet

                In his hometown

                Crying, “Do this!”

Days short

                Ever numbered

                Weekly famine

                Sinners starving

Meal served

                Once a quarter

                If you’re lucky

                Maybe Easter

Eat, Drink

                ‘cause we have to

                Stripped of meaning

                Judgment coming

The Pastor and The Partaker

Pastor

It’s time once again

It’s special (but boring

The young ones ignoring

The old ones are snoring)

Before we begin

            This is not your rebirth

            It’s dirt just like the earth

            Make sure that you have worth

Rid yourself of sin

It’s not that essential

            It’s inconsequential

Invoke reverential

Get on with it then

               

Partaker

I went to my confession booth and told the priest inside,

“Before I sup I must be stripped of all my haughty pride.”

“Then close your eyes, my son,” he said, “and hold them fast and tight

And think upon the sin that swarms within you day and night.

Make sure you plumb the depth of guilt that’s seeped into your soul

And wallow there, and linger long, and you will be made whole.”

“The guilt, I feel!” I said in pain, “The guilt I need removed!

For I have lingered as you said, but I have not improved”

“Then grip the guilt,” the priest replied, “and crush its wicked head.

The triumph over all your guilt gives access to the bread.”

But O! what sorrow struck my heart, I've heard the words before

The logic of the pendulum; the never ceasing war.

Just as the waves upon the rocks will crash and then retreat

So Guilt, then Pride, beat down my soul, then Guilt and Pride repeat

Then I was called out from my booth and from the priest within

Called from my introspective time to cleanse myself from sin

And once again I've failed to find a way to still the tide

That crushes me beneath the waves of surging Guilt and Pride

So now once more I count myself among the fools and fake

Who eat the bread and drink the cup, unworthy to partake.