The Communion Table

The Communion Table

The trees, all cut down,

Asleep in their tomb

Of a workaday woodyard,

Reduced to our vision

Of set square and block.

Resurrected, assembled,

They could have been fashioned

A barrier, fence

Or some deaf-mute post,

A marker of property

Loathing our presence...

But one has been chosen

That cradles our Being

And captures our whispers,

The frame of a service

That speaks for us all

And lifts from the earth

The landscape of silver

And crisp white cloth

All cradling the stuff

That serves up a meal

We pray to be fit for

God.

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