I see him addressing

An undiluted crowd–

You are the light of the world

We are? 

Sheep, maybe

Or chicken (I know my coward heart)

But surely not light

Too strong, too bright, too burning

We must burn on

This Mount of Olives

This Garden of Gethesmane 

This history and geography of light poured out in the crushing weight

Upon olives rendering

Oil and salt rubbed on the skin of the newborn child

Anointing a king

The King

Of light

Who holds

Each burning 

Coil of a star,

The core of fire within each churning planet

Our ordinary souls

In the palms of his stretched-wide 

Hands