Was there a Weary Wednesday
led into Maundy Thursday? A day when all that went before — the palm branches and plotting, all those traps and snares to nail you down — or up — the never-ending cries for healing, the stubborn, blind refusal of your fearful friends to see and speak of what was staring in your face, all this, and then whatever was to come ... was this a day when everything came crashing in until, dashing — mid-dispute — out of the temple court, you found, at last, a solitary place beyond the wall to sit and dream, and contemplate tomorrow, the room, the table, food and wine, those words that must be spoken, the lonely walk into the night?
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