You scooped up from the garden
three measures of fine dust—
of heart and mind nad body—
You kneaded and made us.
Can bread become the baker,
the baker be the bread?
Creation hold its maker
within a manger bed?
But so it was, Messiah:
You came, past all belief,
to see your stars from this side,
your heavens from beneath.
And, kneaded from the same earth,
our God from God's own hands,
you joined us by the same birth:
a mother's labor pains.
Her body broken open
to bear and nourish yours;
your body blessed and broken
to feed a starving world.
The dust of earth in heaven,
and heaven filling earth:
This is the feast you set us,
O savior of the dirt.
Kate Bluett 