Pity
dust. You know
this frame.
Plant us by living streams--
not so near faith
soddens--
Mellow us not!
Teach your saplings to yearn.
Root us in prayer
pressed down
to cling to fertile soil.
Mark this bark deep
with lines of remembrance.
Prune withered limb;
flower fruit in season.
Graft us into the cross,
boughs vaulting heaven
unfurled to receive--praise!
Pierced hands pluck fruit.
Remind.
It was not we
sowed, sunned the seed.
Amen.
