Tonight we dine, the end begun,
He calls me brother, He calls me son.

His voice so calm, yet laced with weight,
As though He sees the twist of fate.

He speaks of blood, of flesh, of pain—
A kingdom born through loss and strain.

“This is my body,” soft He said,
And silence fell as hope turned red.

He broke the loaf, He poured the wine,
And said His time had nearly come.

I didn’t know just what He meant,
When words like “broken” came and went.

And though a traitor sat so near,
He chose to love, not yield to fear.

His eyes so kind, yet veiled with pain,
As if He held the whole world’s ache.

Yet in His gaze, the fire stirred,
A holy flame that knew both love and hurt.

He washed my feet, so still, so kind,
And spoke of a love the world would find.

The songs we sang, now left unsung,
A sacred silence where hope was strung.

I couldn’t grasp it all right then,
But something changed in us—again.

Though I’d fail Him ere the dawn,
He looked at me—and still held on.

The night grows dark, the road is steep,
But still His love, it runs so deep.

Tonight we dined, the end has begun,
But still He calls me brother, He calls me His son.