ancient strain

bread2

This Bread breaks daily,
Yet was broken only once.
Heavenly, and unleavened
By fancy turns of phrase or personal renderings.
“What does this mean to you?”
Is reduced to
“Take and eat.”
This is a reduction of falsehood, not freedom.

This good grain,
Has textures our tongues don’t understand,
And distasteful undertones we’d rather remove.
But we don’t choose the Baker or the Bread, sisters and brothers.
We don’t get to curate to our taste.

I would rather gorge on grass-fed meats and imported cheese, craft beer and sommelier selections to match my farm-to-table repast.
Excuse me, but this Bread isn’t locally-sourced, and it tastes a little stale.
This Wine has funky undertones; do you have something lighter on the palate?
I crave gourmet food,
Even when I know it could turn to ash in my mouth,
Even when, mid-bite,
I could be struck down for letting the grumbling in my tummy reach my lips.

You fill me, as with the richest of foods,
With things as simple as words and bread,
But this is an ancient strain,
Grain that fed forefathers and sustained prophets,
Crumbs that fell from heaven to the wilderness,
As from Your fingers to the five thousand,
As from Your table to Your children.
It is ever-filling, never-failing,
And our taste for it can grow.

“I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, yet they died. But here is the bread that comes down from heaven, which anyone may eat and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.”
John 6:48‭-‬51

(Liturgical poetry during Eastertide is inspired by the I AM statements of Christ. Photo by Linnea Wheeler)

Words for the Church: Eastertide
new wine
begin again
within the knot
lay me down

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