This food and drink only leave you aching.
Maybe more, maybe more will satisfy?
But your weakening hand is now shaking.
Your need is for something money can’t buy.
Yet you fish from an allusive dark pool,
deeply shallow, though immeasurable.
Hitting the once-veiled bottom, hard and cruel;
still craving, while wearing your badge of drool.
Has this search all been a meaningless game?
What fruit do you harvest from fruitlessness?
But your palate is no longer the same,
now desiring rich joy and fruitfulness.
The Redeemer redeems the faintest ache,
proclaiming, “Come, all who hunger and thirst.”
Then spreads fine wine and bread we didn’t make,
and fills our wineskins ‘till the old ones burst.