What will you give me for him, this troubling, trusting man? Your soldiers cower before him; I have him by the hand.
But still my hands are empty, though thousands he has fed. The world was mine: I left it— for morsels of his bread.
He leads, and I have followed— to hunger and to thirst. His promises are hollow as broken shells in the dust.
We cry to him for saving, for healing, for the poor— Whole armies fell to David; he's turning tables over.
He calls himself a shepherd who seeks the scattered sheep. Then I must be too well fettered; he does not look for me.
Then let him taste how bitter it is to be his lamb. So say what you will give me to put him in your hands.
Christ tells his mother of what is to come; Judas on his way to the chief priest; Judas bargaining with the chief priests and receiving his silver By Unknown author – This image is available from the National Library of WalesYou can view this image in its original context on the NLW Catalogue, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44920323
When he was in Bethany reclining at table in the house of Simon the leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of perfumed oil, costly genuine spikenard. She broke the alabaster jar and poured it on his head.
The carven alabaster, a jar of sweet perfume, rains out upon the master anointing for the groom. But once the flask is open, no more can it be shut. The hollow must be broken, entirely poured out.
So Christ the living chalice that holds the love of God, not only tipped but shattered, pours water from the rock. And we are rendered speechless as all the house is filled with wonder at the fragrance when that perfume is spilled.
We weep when it runs empty, the sweetness all poured out; we mourn to see his ending, and all our tears drop down. Though broken in his body, anointed for the tomb, still Christ pours out like water the flood that makes us new.
We are tied together, all of us, as three are tied together in one, as all of the elements are one creation.
We are tied together, all of us, born like Christ in the sweat and muck, dying like Christ in the dirt and blood, buried like him underneath the stones, rising—if we rise—as one, judged by him on what we've done.
May Christ be a mist obscuring me, Christ be the walls surrounding me, Christ be the sun in the sniper's eyes, Christ be the gun that just misfired.
Christ as the snow that covers my tracks, Christ as the fire that pushes men back, Christ as the rocks that take no print, Christ as the darkness, and me within it.
Christ, cover every human face, Christ, make their eyes to be blind with tears. Christ be my hope and hiding place, Christ be my only human shield.
Christ, shut the eyes of every gunner who aims at me. Christ, shut the mouth of every commander who orders it. Christ, shut the ears of every sapper who hunts for me. Christ, shut the heart of every soldier who joys in it.
Christ in the jets that scream above me, Christ in the stones that fall around me, Christ in the hearts of those who love me, Christ in the enemies who surround me.
Christ before me, Christ behind, Christ with me and at my side, Christ above me, Christ beneath, at each hand and in gritted teeth.
We are tied together, all of us, and our death is the death of Christ.
Testing bulletproof vest By National Photo Company – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs divisionunder the digital ID npcc.09503.This tag does not indicate the copyright status of the attached work. A normal copyright tag is still required. See Commons:Licensing., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3815063
Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.”
The grains of wheat the sower long has carried, the harvest of the seeds that came before, you go into the darkness and are buried, and everything you’ve been will be no more.
The road you take, your savior took before you, who followed Adam to the roots of death. And, ground between the stones of pain and sorrow, in dying he becomes the living bread.
The shell that has surrounded you with safety will not withstand the coming flood of tears, then, naked in the silence, weak and shameless, your patience waits the turning of the year.
For as you sit in darkness, spring is coming: The light you long to see will break on high, the prison doors swing open at its dawning, and morning will release those doomed to die.
So go into your furrow and be planted; crack open in the stillness underground, For Jesus, by his death, all death has trampled, and in his rising your new life is found.
Kate Bluett 
