The Bridegroom’s Hour

A Poem Inspired by Matthew 9:15-17

When morning yet was young upon the hills,

And silver dew lay quiet on the grain,

A question rose among the watchful hearts

Of those who weighed devotion’s outward sign.

“Why do your friends not fast as others do,

Nor bow beneath the ancient yoke of grief?”

Thus spoke the watchers of the stricter path,

Who measured faith by hunger and by ash.

Then gently answered he whose voice held dawn,

Whose presence warmed the weary like the sun:

“Can wedding guests sit clothed in somber dust

While still the bridegroom walks among their songs?

Shall flutes fall silent in the house of joy,

And cups be emptied though the feast is set?

No shadow rules while light yet fills the room;

The hour for mourning waits another day.

Yet mark this truth that moves beneath the feast:

The bridegroom shall be taken from their sight,

And when the lamps grow dim without his face,

Their hearts will learn the discipline of night.

Then shall they fast with tears that none command,

For longing writes its law upon the soul.”

He paused, as wind among the olives pauses,

And spoke again in parables of thread:

“No man will take a patch of cloth unshrunk

And bind it to a garment worn and frail;

For when the washing draws the fibers tight,

The tear grows wide, the mending proves a wound.

Nor does one pour the living, restless wine

Into the skins grown brittle with their years.

The swelling breath of youth will split the seams;

The wine is lost, the vessels torn apart.

But wine still warm from harvest’s hidden fire

Finds shelter in the skins prepared anew,

And both are kept, the vessel and the gift.”

So spoke the voice that walked between the worlds,

Where ancient paths met rivers yet to rise.

For hearts long bound in forms of former days

Could scarcely hold the ferment of the dawn.

The kingdom stirred like yeast within the clay,

Expanding walls the old hands could not see.

O mystery of joy before the grief,

Of feasting set beside the coming cross:

The laughter of the wedding fills the air,

Yet somewhere waits the silence of the tomb.

Still wisdom moves between the cloth and wine,

Between the fast and song, the old and new.

For time itself must change its woven frame

When living truth descends among the dust.

The soul made fresh becomes the vessel fit

To bear the swelling vintage of the Lord.

And blessed are the hearts made soft and new,

Not hardened by the habits of the past;

For they shall hold the wine that heaven pours,

And not be torn when grace begins to rise.