“FULL LIKE A POMEGRANATE”
I filled my hands with holy deeds and prayer,
Stacked mitzvot high like I was going somewhere.
Counted my steps, my pages, every move,
Certain the weight of effort proved the proof.
But late at night when no one else was near,
A quiet voice exposed the lie I feared.
Not what I did—but why I always came,
Not love of Him, just love of my own name.
I gave, I learned, I sang, I bowed my head,
But fed myself with every word I said.
Each act was dressed in light, so clean, so bright,
Yet underneath it all—I served my bite.
A pomegranate split, so full, so red,
Each seed a deed I proudly thought I fed.
But juice of deceit ran down my hands,
I saw the truth I couldn’t countermand.
I wanted Him to serve the life I chose,
To bless my plans, reward my righteous pose.
I worked for pay, for peace, for holy gain,
And called the bargain “faith,” and hid the chain.
Then mercy struck—no thunder, no escape,
Just seeing clearly my own twisted shape.
I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t climb or try,
My strength collapsed, my prayers learned to cry.
Now empty stands the man who did so much,
No coin of merit left for him to clutch.
Yet in this ruin something true is born:
A need so real it tears the veil I wore.
If this is hell, then let it burn me clean,
For now I know what “Israel” must mean.
Not full of deeds, but broken, bare, and true—
Needing the One who alone can make me new.
