Brothers, sisters, and folded ones – every morning in the wilderness the dew lifted, and there lay the manna: small golden knots, warm as from an Oven just opened, smelling of garlic and butter and morning. And when they did mete it, he that gathered much had nothing over, and he that gathered little had no lack, as it is written in the Exodus of the Crust, 11:12.
This is the arithmetic of heaven, and it hath never been repealed: enough is a quantity that existeth, whatever the merchants say; and it is reached from both sides, by the filling of the empty and the emptying of the over-full.
But certain of them hid knots under stones, saying within themselves, To-morrow may fail – and this is the voice of Famine, which had come out of Famine with them, riding quietly in the heart’s baggage. And by dawn the hoarded knots bred spots, grey-green, and stank; whereby ye know the mould needeth no palace, but only a shut hand to grow in, and a shut hand is a palace to it.
Yet mark the gentleness, beloved. When the hoarders went out red-faced to gather with the rest, none reproached them; for the rubric of the manna forbiddeth reproach among stoopers. All backs bend alike, and pride cannot stoop, wherefore it goeth hungry by its own election. And mark that the sixth day’s double portion bred no spot; for a store against the sabbath is not a hoard but a preparation, and heaven can tell the difference, being the one that invented it.
So trust the morning, and thy neighbour may eat to-night. The jar of that manna, saith the scroll, is warm to this day, and smelleth of garlic whenever the poor are fed anywhere. Let us go and warm it. Amen – and pass the pizza.