Jesus said to them, “There is no need for them to go away;
give them some food yourselves.”
But they said to him,
“Five loaves and two fish are all we have here.”
Then he said, “Bring them here to me,”
and he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass.
Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven,
he said the blessing, broke the loaves,
and gave them to the disciples,
who in turn gave them to the crowds.
They all ate and were satisfied,
and they picked up the fragments left over—
twelve wicker baskets full.
Those who ate were about five thousand men,
not counting women and children.
--Matthew 14:13-21
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Famine will not take us from you; still, O Lord, we long for bread. Drought cannot dispel our wonder, yet we thirst for rain instead. Fill the cloud that we lie under: Pour your mercy on our head. We have spent our wealth on wishes, but the cup we pass is dry. Shattered cisterns, empty dishes: Nothing here can satisfy. All that’s left, some loaves and fishes— Feed us, Lord, or we shall die. Take the little we can offer— nothing, truly, of our own but the gifts of sun and water, seed and harvest, seas of foam— offer it, then, to the Father; lay our gifts before the throne. Here we dwell beneath a shadow— could it be your wings outspread? Here’s a table in the valley, where you give us wine and bread. All we give is changed and hallowed— here, oh, here at last, we’re fed.
I saw—or thought I saw—somewhere online the first part of something that started like, Five thousand fed? Imagine being the five-thousand-and-first in line! Of course, I can’t remember where I saw it, and I don’t even know if I read it correctly. I was already busy writing because it gave me an idea, which gave me an excuse to whine (my favorite kind of idea):
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Five thousand fed, but oh, five-thousand-and-first I stand here watching others eat their bread, see baskets being filled, about to burst, and still I stand here waiting to be fed. I know the taste of bitterness, of bile, resentment’s acid there, back-of-the-tongue, arising every morning. All the while, it is your word I’ve read, your songs I’ve sung. And yet I stand here empty as a shell but for the memory of bread, the wish that I will someday taste the feast I tell and you will offer me the loaves, the fish.
Bread of Life. A. Mironov - Own work, Andrey Mironov See also ticket:2015070410013036http://artmiro.ru/photo/religija_zhanrovaja_kartina/khleb_zhizni/4-0-965, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=115382242
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