The Lord's Supper Poem by Leo Yankevich

They're gathered round, astonished, full of dread,
round him who like a wise man must decide,
and who leaves those with whom he's broken bread,
and who comes like a stranger from outside.
Old solitude haunts him, Gethsemane,
though once it bound him to astounding acts;
now he will walk through every olive tree,
and those who love him turn away their backs.

He's called them to the table, past the stoves,
and (like birds woken by shots from the groves)
he humbles their hands from among the loaves
with his own words: and toward him they fly,
flawed, fluttering; and yet with all their power,
they look for ways out, since the time is nigh,
but he is everywhere, like twilight hour.


after Rainer Maria Rilke