Welch's and Kroger's

We are buckets...
With holes.
We are faucets...
Dripping drops.
We are dams...
Of half the stream.

And now I sit me down to dine
With too small, simple wooden cup.
My cup runneth over--staining red my hands.
And when the brim is purpled dark,
I grasp the stem to quench my desert thirst.

What wicked fingers must be these
To burn five holes through rough-grained wood.
These thorns of flesh unleash the rush,
And soon the goblet's desert dry

And thus my soul's cup empties fast;
Redeemed, refilled, from meal to meal,
on cups of Welch's savior's blood
and broken Kroger's savior's flesh.