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.
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