Taste this bread, this bitter loaf,
cold and hard, unleavened.
My only food from day to day,
like manna straight from heaven.
Touch this cave, my prison walls,
a cold and dirty darkness,
with lions preying on my flesh,
whose teeth have lost their sharpness.
Hear the cries that mark my breath,
a constant sobbing stranger,
like the Babe whose mother placed
Him in a ragged manger.
Smell the stench of rotting clothes
that bind me up for death,
the graveclothes that my Lord removed
when Lazarus drew breath.
See me raise my feeble arms,
to praise the suffering tide,
For while I ache, I understand
just how and why He died.