The Last Drop

I take my post at the altar of God.
Though I am naught but dirty sod.
Serving the Priest through his most sacred task.
In Christ’s power, through him, I bask.
I hold the wine that will soon be the Lord

That passion cup my sins once poured.
Wine I decant, but alas I must stop
The last few drips slide from the top.
Saddened I gaze at the drink that stays wine,
But wine does not heal souls that pine.

It will not change into Jesus Himself.
(Not in it’s look, but it’s true self.
No longer wine, but the blood of the lamb.
The blood of God with right to damn,
But will to save.) This change won’t be for you.

Not you my friend, alas not you.
You slide back down into the glass vessel.
Never a heart will you nestle.
Were you once proud, on your vine so tall?
Were you plumpest? God takes the small.

Just like the priest, he was too once transformed.
Not due to him, no task performed.
Christ wants the meek to be another Him.
To him, you grape, the bright are dim.
Down you will slide through a drain that is dank.
An almost God, no one will thank.

Wonder at him who Christ calls as a Priest.
What tools are his, bread without yeast,
Grapes from a vine, and the words of the Son.
With these few things wonders are done.
I pity you grape that will never be God.
Christ trades the small; Alter Christus for sod