I cannot see him in the morning mists
as blind to hope I’ve found myself to be.
What grace is there to open eyes to see
if love at all in this garden exists?
Here earth weights stubborn as sour grapes amassed
on vines that grow from soil of rock and rums
where wheat and rye a seedless chaff becomes
so parched of rain that fruit produced can’t pass
as food good for any use. Yet, from this bed
a meal is formed intended for a child
to eat and drink as open eyes be formed.
It is a bread broken, but blessed instead,
a wine pressed out as from a vein so mild,
love’s nourishment that clears the mist of morn.