Frederick Buechner 1926-2022
If it is possible,
let this cup pass from me.
Not the cup that runneth over,
that brims and spills.
Not the free refill, bottomless,
best wine last, big gulp cup.
Not that cup, but this small cup
of bitter gall, this last wetness.
This cup I drain, containing,
in the dregs, all the death that ever was.
Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash
What a lovely poem, short but full.
Ah, what a poignant tribute to Buechner and thoughtful pointing to Gethsemane’s agony!