I’ve fed on pods, I must confess,
Out in the field, when hunger pressed,
What’s meant for swine I’ve feasted on,
Midst dung I dined, my gusto gone.
I took my fill of stagnant swill,
Ingested things that might have killed,
I found myself in distant land
Fresh out of luck, life out of hand.
There should have been an ending there
In blending with the empty stares
But something woke and pushed aside
The prison of my toxic pride.
When given strength to journey back
I found the fruit I sorely lacked,
The wine that’s poured from royal blood,
A Father’s feast, prepared in love.