The supper done, now the Familiar Place.
You loved them to the end, and this is it:
A crushing grove, a mount of oil and grace.
Your prayer, The Prayer, anguished, soaked exquisite
If I could stay awake, I’d pray your words
And mean them. And if I could sweat my blood
To pores my “Abba” might sound less absurd.
But those are my eyes – still caked in mud
You made from spit and dust – Still on my way,
Hands stretching toward Siloam. And these ears
Are mine – still throbbing just for you to say
“Ephphatha!” If it be thy will, now hear
My echo small. If even You can plead
And then submit, then I can also bleed.
You can listen to me read it here
https://soundcloud.com/benwhitepoetry/maundy-tbursday-sonnet
Today, if you hear his voice 