Twice two or three more icons at the table: twelve,
Yes, of course, the guests; the audience, unprepared, is screened
Some few short lines before the festivities begin but barely seen,
In all that wine; some one of them has gone and leaves no trail to dwell
On lethal details; who keeps score? Yes, of course, the blessing,
Words but softly spoken yet incredibly relevant, and who is more
Who bears the weight of adoration–Whose welcome’s scorned–
And none of them the wiser in the stay of execution; who’s guessing
Who’ll be next, and who will never make it to the door.
Come Sunday morning and the consolation prize will out.
The forthright, forced frenetic paces run riot through the dining room. Shouts,
Hosannas for the One Whom he denies so erstwhile vague before the war.
How sweet the hour and guests, how drawn the face of him whose plate
Is empty; as we meet tonight within the Cave, God help him who hesitates.