By Their Works Poem by Bob Hicok
By Their Works
Who cleaned up the Last Supper?
These would be my people.
Maybe hung over, wanting
desperately a better job,
standing with rags
in hand as the window
beckons with hills
of yellow grass. In Da Vinci,
the blue robed apostle
gesturing at Christ
is saying, give Him the check.
What a mess they've made
of their faith. My God
would put a busboy
on earth to roam
among the waiters
and remind them to share
their tips. The woman
who finished one
half eaten olive
and scooped the rest
into her pockets,
walked her tiny pride home
to children who looked
at her smile and saw
the salvation of a meal.
All that week
at work she ignored
customers who talked
of Rome and silk
and crucifixions,
though she couldn't stop
thinking of this man
who said thank you
each time she filled
His glass.
A brilliant meditation on real worth of human suffering and the true meaning of the teachings of a humble interloper in Palestine who's gospels became institutionalized in Rome. I imagine the speaker of the poem is a lowly charwoman/dishwasher/busboy in a fancy restaurant in the city of seven hills. She is a devoted person and not without an understanding of the books of the Bible and great works of religious art. But it is not the great and lofty that commands her attentions. She serves others. She makes do with the smallest of offerings for a meal. She is drawn not to the words of the rich and powerful but the humble kindness of one who thanks her for her least offering of water. A very effective re-imagining in modern times of the enduring meaning of a prophet who spoke two thousand years ago. This poem concentrates its energies on the goodness and kindness of human acts and the grand decrees and laws which are only so many words. Touching.
an interesting poem of might have happened after the last supper? god only knows!
Is it not human nature to take the legacy of a man who slept upon the ground and encouraged others to give all their belongings to the poor, and build upon the backs of generations of underfed laborers soaring cathedrals of marble and gold-leafed mahogany to honor his memory? To wield the sword and the disemboweling utensils to ensure that no man strayed from the teachings of He who implored us to love not just our neighbors, but our enemies as well?
Conveys His kindness and humanity more than a cleric ever could.
A beautiful poem. As is The painting of The Last Supper. It is a painting that starts the mind. Thank you for expressing all of our possible thoughts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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12/11/2023 3:53:45 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Of a meal! ! Thanks for sharing.