The old garment is bursting;
the new patch will not fit.
Well-known threads fray everywhere;
holes take place of whole.
Who is this man? He takes the dross
and debris, sits and eats with them?
He takes our pious sackcloth and flings
it on the heap where sin should be.
Reversal confuses: the bridegroom stands
before head-scratching guests,
waiting fulfilled, sickness granted answers,
yet fasting where He should find feasting.
The Consolations of Writing 