Fill your hand with it, if you could,
And drink it down like a broth burning with the fury of fusion.
Still you will not be fuller than with one tiny morsel of bread
And a drop of wine.
How does that work?
How does a word from Him
satisfy more than a thousand pictures from the world?
I watch the blood drip from those hands,
my shame wrestled onto his back and pinned to a tree,
How long until I learn this lesson,
And cease to seek the stars
Over their Maker?