Raymond A. Foss Poems

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In the little room, off the sanctuary,
the space where worship supplies
were kept, a stack of white linen
tablecloths, communion cloths
that once covered His table,
held his holy meal, the body, the blood
stained by the spilt wine, the dark
stain of his blood, washing his blood
pressing the white fabric, folding, putting
it away, in its place once more
washing His blood from the white cloth
but not from our hearts

October 16, 2006 21:58

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