If the walls had ears,
And if those streets could hear,
What fears and tears would they remember about THAT Thursday?
The sound of footsteps, as a dozen men (plus One) made their way toward
THAT room, THAT upper room.
The splash of water, as the basin was prepared,
And those gathered there stared.
Dirty feet. Dirtier men.
And the sound of The Carpenter’s voice,
with His own Good and clean hands.
What’s that sound, now, that the walls hear?
The breaking of bread?
The pouring of wine?
The ‘I am the Vine,’
Sharing His final thoughts, before … it’s time.
Time to sing.
The walls resound with the sound of music.
The walls hear a hymn.
And the street watched Him, as He walks into what’s left of THAT Thursday.
THAT sound: the sound of thirty pieces of silver.
Not just any silver, though.
The sound of THAT silver, as it’s placed in the betrayer’s guilty hand.
(Who knew ‘blood money’ could make such a terrible noise?)
And now, a sound of a different kind;
(A garden scene unlike any ever seen.)
Weak men doze.
But the darkness knows,
And all heaven hears Him pray.
THAT One Lone Voice.
THAT awful choice.
And THAT garden … where He can’t stay.
The soldiers have come,
And so has … the time.
Time for THAT kiss.
Time for THAT arrest.
Time for THAT long walk toward suffering and agony, as the beatings begin.
THAT sound: The whip on THAT back, naked and innocent.
THAT voice: Peter’s lying tongue, and the denials, all three of them, before
THAT rooster speaks up, even though it was still dark as ink and black, besides.
Never been a night like THAT night.
Never been a love like THAT love.
Never been a sound like the sounds that the walls
And the streets,
And the garden
And the night heard …
On THAT Thursday.
Oh. My. God.