Spilling Claret

© arsenypopel

The perfect vintage had aged thirty-three years,
   and was poured into the cup of the world.
The libation was inherently bittersweet;
   blackness now stained purplish-red,
cascading into some vessels of clay
   gathered below Him on the hill.

His Father lifts Him up thus swirling the chalice,
   and a breath of fragrant forgiveness
makes us forget our sorrow, as we partake
   of this unquenchable indulgence,
cheerfully toasting the groom;
   His bride blushing with enthusiasm.

No expense was spared to prepare
   for the wedding,
so we took our places
   from the east west north and south,
and indeed, the best was not saved
   for last.

This miracle now contained in pottery cracked;
   an offering satisfying our thirst
with its sobering intoxication.

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