By trade I am a baker of the bread.
Employed within this great patrician home.
The good, the pure, the true, seem almost dead
Amidst this great corruption which is Rome.
This evil empire, cruel, pestilent,
Compared with those who follow in the Way,
With simple goodness and with fine intent,
Is as the night in contrast with the day.
I mixed and set the household bread last night,
And as I watched, the little bit of yeast
Spread slowly through until the mass was light.
I saw the strength of what had seemed the least.
I knew that Truth, almighty in its power.
Would leaven all the lump. In Christ I learn
That evil cannot stay, much less devour,
The strength of good, the good for which men yearn.
Of course the fermentation, while it works,
Will burst and bubble, till at last I know
That all is well; that in no corner lurks
A mass of heavy, still unleavened dough.
I know that good will overturn until
The Truth whose right it is shall be revealed.
The working of the leaven brings not ill
But greater good, for nothing is concealed
Which should be known. It is the Father's will
That evil disappear and all be healed.
