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.