You are my plenty;
I rejoice
In the feast you are to me.
I savour
In a hundred ways
Your presents and your presence:
Treasures of your embrace.
From your fullness we have all
received,
Grace upon grace upon grace.
There is another place,
Another time,
Found on the pilgrim path,
When sadness weighs like heavy
stones within us,
When the dry wind sucks
The living water from our lips,
When empty hands
Are our truest oblation,
When the word once spoken
Is hurled into the storm,
And we strain our ears to hear.
There is no feasting then.
Let me walk through the seasons
Of want and plenty
In the quiet certitude
That you have walked there first.
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