Proverbs 1:31; 9:5
If I could grasp at Truth at all,
In a fine feast of hymnody,
I’d eat my fill; but my own fall
Has made of it a parody.
Beyond my reach, it’s only ash
I savour now, from Dead Sea fruit.
My lot bewailed, my teeth I gnash,
As I grub up fell’s shrieking root:
My birthright sold, my mess it makes.
Sin’s fruitage taught what Adam knows:
With swine the prodigal partakes.
I’ll go, then – glean where Wisdom sows.
Sophia’s fare – her wind-doled meat –
Her manna won’t to poison turn.
With new-washed hands I’ll take, I’ll eat,
Refresh my soul, and lesson learn.
Spiced with sagacity Faith’s songs
Will whet anew my appetite:
Then grown upright and done with wrongs
I’ll taste a fresh and chaste delight.