I'm staring at a thimble's worth of grape juice, contemplating the lingering, chalky taste of a bread Chiclet. I pray, trying to make sense of this centuries-old ritual. Then, in visualizing threads of thorns, pressed into his head, cutting him and making him bleed, I begin to see the import of what I hold in my hand.
I dwell on the pain, the excruciating, senseless pain of one who was born perfect, who lived perfectly, whose life was formed in this world so that I could be made perfect.
Blood splashes on the walls of my mind, from the snickering guards who whipped my Savior, weakening him for the sacrifice, to the blood of countless sheep shed for acts of contrition long forgotten.
I take this plastic cup, it's dark red fruit, and I drink in remembrance.
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