How strange he’d been at supper handing round
the cup, that talk about his blood, the bread
his body broken, eaten, those who fed
on him by covenant now newly bound.
And so they slept, and in their dreams the sound
of someone praying, crying out in dread
amid the smell of olives, someone dead
to hope whose prayers fell leaden to the ground,
resounded with so nightmarish a peal,
the dreamers even thought it might be real.
And real it was for him whose blood not wine
but sweat now poured as he his prayer intoned,
all human now, bereft of the divine,
his passion born in knowing he’s alone.
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