On Friday Nights and Sunday Mornings
He feasts because life is not joyful; he revels because he is not glad. “Drink,” he says, “for you know not whence you come nor why. Drink, for you know not when you go nor where. Drink, because the stars are cruel and the world as idle as a humming-top. Drink, because there is nothing worth trusting, nothing worth fighting for. Drink because all things are lapsed in a base equality and an evil peace.” So he stands offering us the cup in his hand.
And at the high altar of Christianity stands another figure, in whose hand also is the cup of the vine. “Drink,” he says, “for the whole world is as red as this wine, with the crimson of the love and wrath of God. Drink, for the trumpets are blowing for battle and this is the stirrup-cup. Drink, for this is my blood of the new testament, that is shed for you. Drink, for I know of whence you come and why. Drink, for I know of when you go and where.”