The Consecration of the Eucharist
When the priest says,
“This is my body. This is my blood.”
My eyes see nothing more than bread.
Jesus is not whom I hear, but the priest.
And when my tongue is fed, with God,
My taste is filled with grain without yeast.
I smell nothing more than that grain.
I feel nothing more than baked plants, deceased.
So when Jesus stoops down to me
And enters into my head,
All my body can say of this is,
“Is this God? This is merely bread.”
So I jump to abandon my senses
And I fly to Jesus’ heels.
I reach up and touch his sleeves
For as many as touched him were healed.
When Jesus turns and looks at me
I am frightfully scared and ashamed.
I prostrate myself, because I am scared,
But Jesus is not angry, but tame.
In my humble stance of shame,
Jesus enters through my mouth.
I’m shocked, and I stop crying.
He is wonderful, and he came.
So this is the truth, that Jesus wants us
To ask very much of him
And of the meek and humble of heart,
Jesus loves and dwells therein.
Marcelo Ortiz
