The Day Before the Last

The day before the last,
when bread is just bread,
and wine is just wine,
there is a chance, a facet
of hope to cling to, for us gathered.

He’s been to the desert and back,
escaped mobs, angered politicians,
priests, and peasants, surely it
won’t go all wrong this time;

no, this is not the last.

We’ll ride out of the city as we came in,
Go back to the wilderness
And fish, and heal, and witness,
and die of old age or accident.

It won’t come to this.
It doesn’t seem possible.
It isn’t.
If you told me it would happen
I’d doubt it to your face until the
rooster crows.

§ 
Holy Wednesday is the last day on the edge of the abyss.  Before all hell breaks loose, trying to swallow the king of the coming kingdom whole into a torturous death and a dank grave. How could Thursday and Friday possibly happen, then the lonely Saturday.  I wouldn’t believe it if you told me.

And don’t get me started on Sunday…