Grace You Can Taste

Called to be saints but it's like trying to run in a dream--

immobile, then sliding, slipping, tripping into

 icy streams--a gasp for brief relief.  

The sun as it spills through glass chapel panes sets fire--

bread broken, wine shared and the flames grow higher.  

Fire burns, but does not consume--transforms.  

Mercy in its fury embraces sorrowing souls--

become joy and hearts glow.

Every cup is a communion--

of coffee shared in smiles through gritted teeth,

of peach wine reminiscent of days spent

falling in love with the One who made the mountains

and skies dotted with stars,

of blood poured out.

Thirst brings me to my knees and I reach

for the Cup, taste the drops on my lips

in Communion with saints--

Grace.

heaven on earth