Holy Thursday

  

The evening song rises,

wavering upward with the incense.

Voices sound out like trumpets,

break open in beauty like daffodils,

proclaiming before the great suffering begins:

“It is for love! It is for love! 

This great folly is for love!”

And then, the garden,

agony

alone.

Jesus, your prayer rises like a whisp of smoke,

like a candle extinguished…

leaving only a sad grey trail

curling heavenward in the darkness.

The tabernacle sits empty,

like a heart broken open

and found abandoned.

Love—

life—

lost.

We stay,

mourning you with our songs,

eyes open and aching,

empty of tears,

waiting.