Thrice Beaten With Rods, And Baked Into Bread: A Poem On The Eucharist

Thrice Beaten With Rods, And Baked Into Bread
ἦθος ἀνθρώπῳ δαίμων

Is this the body and the blood for real
Or do I eat by sweat my wrinkled brow
And feed on doubt and lust even as I kneel?

The words were spoken plain and bare as steel
But I would complicate and rate them now.
Is this the body and the blood for real?

There is no magic done to see or feel
Except a spelling of words and a woven vow.
I feed on doubt and lust even as I kneel.

Not art nor philosophy make of it a meal
That does what so solemn says. He never said how
This is the body and the blood for real.

Maybe it's an animal weakness for social congeal,
The sodded quick of boiled bones' marrow
Where stew the doubt and lust even as I kneel.

But under this red rock is the new deal.
Not under; this rock's the whole loaf now.
It is the body and the blood for real,
Again I feed on bread and wine, and kneel.

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