He gives me water as I order toast;
three drops splash on my forehead like a charm
named for the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
I tell my woes while He makes sure I'm fed,
His salad oil confirms me to persist;
absolving me with blessed daily bread,
He piles upon my plate His Eucharist.
All reconciled He asks me to assert
to wed my wine to one who fills my bowl,
or order holy fare, then for dessert,
a final feast of grace to heal my soul.
From such a waiter, such solicitude,
I can't refuse such sacramental food.
-- by Pete Voelz 6/05
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