Living BreadPentecost 11, John 6:35;41-51
O bread of life, teach me to wait and rise,
for I am flat beneath these leaden skies.
The words I write are stodgy from the start –
no Spirit effervescence of true art.
I come to you, but hunger has grown dull;
I write of you, but know not what to cull.
My thoughts I judge parochial at best –
but you they thought too local to be blessed,
and what has come from heaven must find flesh
that looks like someone’s offspring, not made fresh.
Though we are drawn to God, we may not see
a splendour more complete than we can be,
and though you nurture us to live, not die,
we know not what that means, or how or why.