606 and 607
My friends once called me king. But I am not.
My father called me son. But this is half
the title that, for me, your own hand wrought:
an “heir of God” by sceptre and by staff.
Yet evidence betrays this prince of yours,
who loves, more, other titles than this one.
Your name, the many, aggravates and bores,
and clinging to it oft makes fellows run.
How now to walk with only those who know
thy light already, and to never share
among those of that country here below
in hell, who might be saved if they could fare
thy feasts? I drop thy name that they might come—
that names may not make me, to sinners, numb.
~~~
How much I loved when love was not then spread
upon the table, laid for me to eat.
She placed there passion’s plates and pleasure’s bread,
but not love’s cup that makes a meal complete.
And now my appetite can bear no more,
tho here I find the love I yearned for then.
Would that I could from your pitcher’s depths pour,
for I would drink your love once, and again.
Detestable and hungry me of thence
when from that loveless table I partook.
Forgive, I pray, that I lightly dispense
thy drink. I want it more than I now look.
If time should heal, I’ll drink the whole of thee:
the love I feared had long forsaken me.