the last supper

In twilight’s hush, the chamber glows, A table set in silent rows. The bread lies still, the wine runs deep— A promise stirred from sacred sleep. Twelve men recline with hearts unsure, While shadows press against the door. The Teacher speaks, His voice a flame, Each syllable a whispered name. “This bread, My body—take and eat. This wine, My blood—red, rich, complete.” He lifts the cup with trembling grace, Foreknowing fate He soon must face. A traitor sits with downcast eyes, The silver glints of quiet lies. Yet love remains, unbroken, wide— Even for he who will not bide. The hush grows thick, the moment near, As sorrow mingles deep with fear. But still He bends to wash their feet, The Son made servant, grace replete. The lamplight dims, the night turns black, No turning now, no looking back. But at that table, bread and wine Became the bridge 'tween flesh and divine,