If ventured on by starving beast in desert gap,
His palate and his lips will puncture, blood make flow;
As if conserve of roses should with daggers glow.
The word of life’s the green, the tender, juicy thorn.
Material become, it’s dry, as hard as horn.
And thou, poor flesh, expectant of the living word,
Bitest at the word material, dreaming not of sword;—
Snappest at the hard, unyielding dictum, with fond zest;
And findest it horny, flinty, irksome to digest.10
It has become a stone. It wounds; it draws forth blood.