Twelve frightened men who feel that death is hovering near crowd around the Son of Man whose hand is lifted over a piece of bread and over a cup. Of what value is this gesture, of what use can it be? How futile it seems when already a mob is arming itself with clubs, when in a few hours Jesus will be delivered to the courts, ranked among scoundrels, tortured, disfigured, laughed at by His enemies, pitiable to those who love Him, and shown to be powerless before all. However, this Man condemned to death does not offer any defense; He does nothing but bless the bread and the wine and, with eyes raised, pronounce a few words.

It seems that, after nineteen centuries of extraordinary glorification, the small Host for which so many cathedrals have sprung up, the small Host that has rested in millions of breasts and that has found a tabernacle and worshippers even in the desert–it seems that the triumphant Host of Lourdes and of the Eucharistic Congresses of Chicago and Carthage remains as unknown, as secret as when it appeared for the first time in a room in Jerusalem. Light is in the world as in the days of St. John the Baptist, and the world does not know it.

Holy Thursday, An Intimate Remembrance
Francois Mauriac