Psonnets of Worship
Thy Love, O Lord

Thy love, O Lord, is like no meal on earth.
Choice cuts of meat, ripe fruit, the sweetest wine
would fain but touch my lips if I should dine,
prepared to taste, well-cooked upon the hearth,
and scarce compare to Thy compassion's worth.
Such succulence my palette would decline,
the bread like stone, the wine like brackish brine,
their flavors adding merely to my girth.
My saying grace and blessing sounds accursed,
for who among the saints would not agree?
One swallow lacking love would be my worst,
one taste without Thy love, true gluttony.
For Thee my tongue shall ever be athirst,
and in my bowels, I hunger more for Thee.
~ by Michael Rew / Email: witness@psonnets.org

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