And sunlit paths mark the pilgrim's way,
There lived a baker of humble creed,
Whose hands would serve a sacred need.
From wheat fields kissed by morning's light,
Grain was gathered, pure and bright,
With prayerful heart and careful hand,
I milled the flour from this holy land.
With water pure from Jordan’s flow,
And yeast’s gentle, rising glow,
I kneaded dough with reverence deep,
A solemn vow in each press and sweep.
My humble hearth, a sacred space,
Where warmth and faith did interlace,
As bread took form beneath my gaze,
I offered thanks and silent praise.
The bread I baked, both simple and grand,
Held mysteries I could not understand,
For in its crust and in its crumb,
The echoes of the Divine would hum.
One fateful eve, beneath a starry sky,
A carpenter's son came passing by,
With a gentle smile, His words were few,
But His presence, like morning dew.
He spoke of love and heaven's reign,
Of sacrifice and earthly pain,
He blessed the bread with hands so pure,
A gesture simple, yet profound and sure.
"I am the bread," He softly said,
"Of life eternal, come and be fed."
In that moment, my spirit soared,
To serve the One whom I adored.
Now every loaf I bake and share,
Becomes a sign of love and care,
A testament to the sacred meal,
Where bread and wine make God’s love real.
For I was the baker who baked our Lord's bread,
And through my hands, His grace was spread,
A humble servant, blessed and led,
To offer sustenance where faith is fed.
In each warm loaf, His presence stays,
A reminder of those holy days,
Where earthly toil met heaven's light,
And bread became our soul's delight.
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