No parchment leaf to skim with careless eye,
Nor volume shut upon the scholar’s shelf:
The hand of flame extends, and bids me try
The bitter text, to make it bone and self.

“Eat,” the voice commands, no gentle word,
“Fill belly deep with lamentation’s scroll;
Mourning and woe inscribed on every side—
Devour it whole.”

I opened mouth, and lo, the roll was laid
Upon my tongue, a weight of darkened ink;
Yet as I chewed the judgments God had made,
Sweet honey flowed where gall might make me shrink.

O paradox of grace! The heart’s own bread
Is judgment first, then sweetness in the vein;
Till man becomes the message he has read,
And speaks what burns, yet satisfies again.

Not hearers only, nor debaters vain,
But vessels filled, who bear the living sting—
The Word must lodge where blood and marrow reign,
Or else the prophet’s mouth is but a ring.

Thus eat, O soul, and let the honey stay,
Though sorrow sour the stomach in its course;
For truth, once swallowed, cannot fade away—
It shapes the man, and is itself the source.