The Table
The table of oak is simple and strong,
Worn smooth and welcome- the benches are long,
A hook holds my lantern, and lifts it to shine…
Make ready the table: they’re coming to dine.
What shall I serve them? My cupboard is bare.
They’re hungry for love, so they don’t really care.
Will I have the surplus to have them well fed?
Be quiet…be quiet… they’re coming for Bread.
Recalling a chamber, the heart of the Hold, the joy that was mine as I came in the door,
There, the King’s table, the dazzling Light! My little old lantern, a light on the floor.
Simple, so simple, the table, so lovely, invited to dine so I sat in my chair…
Glancing around at the faces, familiar, the Host of the dinner- the Prince. He was there!
The Prince, yes the Prince! He was serving my portion,
He’s reaching around me to refill my glass,
A thin wooden platter of Bread, yes of Bread! was placed in my hand.
I did not let it pass.
I took it and broke it, a piece in my fingers, a priceless reminder, a personal prize,
I lifted the Bread that was broken- to eat it-
“Do this.” said the Prince as He captured my eyes.
My table of oak, I work to prepare it,
They’re coming to dine and it’s my job to share it.
And what shall I serve them? I’ll do what He said,
When come to my table, I serve Broken Bread.
My thoughts can defeat me…I do not feel able,
Nor am I desirous of setting the table,
My dirty old lantern was buffed to a shine,
A rich conversation, this lantern of mine.
Yet, I set the table and offer it free,
I do what I can, but they don’t come for me.
I dared to obey Him, the table filled since,
They come for the Bread. Who serves it?
The Prince.
Oh, The King’s Table, I see it so clearly, the beautiful cup and the contents therein.
I want it. I lift it. I drink the cup down, exchanging His love for the darkness of sin.
Sip it or drink it, or let the cup pass?
What say you, oh drinker, when offered the glass?
To sip it, of course is a self-serving lie,
To let the cup pass, then the gift passes by.
But to drink the cup dry, to remember the Cross,
The ransom, the Savior, the victory, the loss.
Receiving His Lordship, the cost will be high,
Though higher, if any dare, let it pass by.
Passing His table: the way of the dead.
Receive of His glory, consume Broken Bread.
The beautiful chamber, the Lampstands ignited, brilliant each flicker, the noble elect…
A man is beside me, he’s sipping the cup, the offer, this sipper would dare to reject!
“Oh, I was a sipper, a fool with my soul.
I coveted lordship, demanded control.
I wasn’t the man I pretended to be.
The King always knew. I deceived, mainly, me.
I sipped and I slipped. I can never rise up.”
Then the Prince handed Jonathan Marcus the Cup.
I, too was a sipper, a long time ago, I sipped on the cup, very much for the show,
Then sensing great need and admitting my thirst, Oh, he is a sipper, but I was one first.
When the Prince came again with that overfull glass, restoring this sipper: the cup didn’t pass.
I wanted that cup! That sweet, precious thing.
And I drank the cup down for the love of the King.
So I set the table and sippers draw near,
They don’t know the Prince, nor the King, so they fear.
They sip though they’re filled with unbearable thirst,
They know they are sippers, but I was one first.
The long, simple table, the guests are arriving,
They sit in their places, and I start to serve.
Struggling souls, blazing Light, little lanterns,
The trust I’ve been given I do not deserve.
They come to my table, and I wash their feet,
Bread is the staple they’re offered to eat,
They comment, indeed, that my table is small,
Oh, I am surprised there’s a table at all!
Their need and my need so clearly the same-
They come to my table, desiring the flame.