on seeing The Last Supper

In the end
we all betray you

Oh, we swear it won't be us
for none could turn us

Yet our denials are not the words
that can remind a wandering heart
of the taste of satisfaction found
when restlessness gives way
to rest

So we set forth again
to find
what we already have

We turn our faces toward
the brazen light of lesser gods

But you
you do not turn away
with arms outstretched
you wait

the last day

It ends.
And I feel nothing.
My thoughts are muffled by this white noise.
My feelings are shrouded in a formless fog.
No contour.
No context.
I am a mystery
even to myself.
I know nothing,
but this one desire
that I did not earn,
that I cannot have.
It blankets everything like a stifling ash,
turning the world to frozen gray.
I am clutched in its timeless vice.
Still I feel nothing.

It is a hard thing for me to learn patience because I am afraid, afraid that I will not accomplish all I wish to see done in my lifetime, afraid I will squander the one precious chance to live well.  It is my heart's deep desire to live well, fully, deeply, expansively, wholly, abundantly.
Your poems call me back from fear.  Your Scriptures gently remind me that you are life, the fullness of all my heart seeks, the depth of unexplored wonders, the expansiveness of all the stars, the wholeness of true oneness, the abundance of all that is and was and ever will be.
Teach me to live in the patient surrender of long knowing.  Teach me to be eternal.