Maurice Whyte


Last Supper, First Slaughter Poem by Maurice Whyte


In the gloaming, I am the shaven
Man, misboarded and trammeled
At my Lord's High Table;
I am His, a renounceful creature,
And must perform His Will.

He argues privately
That he must be martyred;
It marvels me. I demand,
Master, are there
No godsome ways? He laughs
Derisively, announces
It must be.

But Master, it will cast me in shame.
He says, you are my shaven-headed
Man, and a lamb like me.

Submitted: Sunday, August 24, 2014

Topic of this poem: religion


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