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They are assembled around him, troubled and confused.
He seems withdrawn,

as if, strangely, he were flowing past
those to whom he had belonged.
The old aloneness comes over him.
It had prepared him for his deep work.
Now once again he will go out to the olive groves.
Now those who love him will flee from him.

He had bid them come to this last meal.
Their hands on the bread
tremble now at the words he speaks,
tremble in sudden silence
as a forest does when a gun is fired.
They long to leave, and they will.
But they will find him everywhere.

Poem | “The Last Supper” by Rainer Maria Rilke in Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy, A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings from the Best pf Rainer Maria Rilke (Harper One, 2009) page 89.

I found this over at A-mused the wonderful blog by Fr. Phillip Chircop.

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