Jun 8 9:00
Jun 8 12:00
The king is chained to his throne.
I carry the cup of blessing through the halls of his stained glass prison
and the evening light plays across his face like it is a death mask
His eyes are closed, and the lashes fringe his secrets,
hair like a raven's wing hangs down, moveless,
he sits like stone.
All is quiet, and time lays out like dust,
spread thin across the flagstones so cool against my feet
the throne room is a tower, airless and immobile
with blue glass spires that twist together far above
like his lips, askew, the quirk of his smile a madman
He is dressed in the white of the Lamb for sacrifice
waiting for the windows to break.
He will bleed the life-blood again,
Men will bow down and lap it up,
not knowing who they drink
they would spit in his face if they could.
The speak of his sacred heart
say it purifies and restores
