Making Bread by Grace Noll Crowell

Some labour gathers to itself a light:
This I have found where, women, making bread,
Perform anew an ancient, simple rite
That men and little children may be fed.
Something about the handling of white flour
Is beautiful: the thought of sun on wheat -
The shining silver of a quick, late shower -
A great mill glimmering through the harvest heat -

And old as time- a fadeless picture still:
The gold of grain crushed fine beneath a stone -
Two women grinding at an ancient mill,
And one is taken - one is left alone -
Oh, always, somewhere - women have made bread
That men and little children might be fed.

The Evening Meal By Grace Noll Crowel

The preparation of the evening meal
By any woman, anywhere, may be
A ceremony, beautiful to see,

Recalling clear, sweet evenings long ago
At Emmaus, or Bethany, when One
Beloved guest had come at set of sun.

And oh, that other quiet evening meal
Within an upper room - the grace He said
Above the scarlet wine, the broken bread!

An evening meal is such a gracious thing,
It matters not how plain may be the fare
So long as love and loyalty are there.

The supper hour - a magnet drawing home
The ones who have the need of food and rest!
All women know this hour of the day is best.