The Bread Is Stale Poem by Mark Sauer

The bread is stale, the wine is spilled.
The salt is flat, the lamp is out.
The oil rancid, the bells are stilled;
The certainties decayed to doubt.
But though the book is ashes now,
The signs and wonders still remain;
The oracle, in silent vow,
Is now forbidden to explain.
Though we discard all things save grace
Yet, inexplicably, there stay
Those deep-gouged marks we can't efface;
God's fingerprints upon the clay.
Though we have shut our eyes as one,
Through sealed lids still burns the sun.