I still don’t see why the chair at this table is marked with my newer name.
I still don’t get how You give, Your glad and golden grace that overrules my petty contradictions, my paltry contributions.
I’m still surprised by the way You watch me, a Host eagerly exulting,
Delighting in my delight, barely suppressing the secrets still on the stove.
Every day, You serve up surprises. Help yourself, You say, dishing out carnations and crescent moons.
Try just a little, You soothe in the bitter-brewed storm clouds and shadows.
And when I’m sated with sunshine and summer stars and the sweet steep of all You are,
You’re piling my plate again. Won’t you have more?
I knew that You blessed bread, and broke it, but not that You’d sit like a servant beside me,
With water to rinse rejection like dust off my feeble feet,
Elbows cocked comfortably on the table You built with Your own blood,
Sacred scarred hands overflowing my cup with the wine of a welcome I can never wear out.