From Bethany Poem by Steve Taunton

The cool mornings have been good to us,
Though the sun seems no less blinding.
Our baskets were heavy last year
Laden from the hillside terraces,
Bearing the earth-life of summer,
Borne up through the vine:
The clustered fruit, sunlit swollen,
Were full of promise…

Our eyes are turned toward Jerusalem;
We’ve talked of him as he approaches the city.
Anxious to capture and fix our memories—
How much of Him can we claim to know?
We talk of Him, we talk of little else:
Some of us confirming, some denying,
Some comparing; even so many of us have
Become full with hope…

Crushed, bursting,
The death of the broken fruit flowed
As a brilliant stream last year in the presses.
When, as we sat at our table
Filling our cups, we sensed
That the best of our vines would not compare
With the cup to be raised
Next year in Jerusalem.