It is from that place I took my first sip of robust coffee.
Mountains blanketed with small red and green beans
Plucked, picked, soaked, bursting open under the atomic
Pressure of the long golden hand of the sun.
Gathered by olive colored hands; counted, processed,
Soaked, dried, roasted to the perfect dark brown fair trade
Humble hands outstretched offering a sip of the caramel
Gold, harvested by hours, and weeks, and years of
Generations of families laboring and sweating, and dying
And full of passion. With heart felt emotion, offering my young,
soft, innocent lips a taste of their legacy.
My God, I taste the whole planet, from here in South America
It is the place I saw a missionary laying on blood soaked
Earth, next to a coffee plant too young for harvest. Bible
In hand, face to the sun, still smiling from recent entrance to
Heaven, gathered from the bean country by the long golden
Eternal hand of the Son
Gospel literature scattered around like the scattering of seeds
In the field, with anticipation of a future harvest of souls.
There was no sign of grief, only love. He still wore upon his face
A mask of passion; for men to be gathered, and cleansed,
and counted for the kingdom of God. No anger towards the one
who had cut him down, he was fully satisfied in the race he
had ran and completed, a martyr in the harvest field. His left hand
gripped a piece of brown paper bag upon which was inscribed in
black ink: Win the Lost at all Cost.
My God, I heard the whole planet, from here in South America
It is the place I first understood true beauty. The mountains, the valleys
The trees, the animals, the people, the earth and sky kissing each other
At dawn; creating an indescribable portrait of creation, painted
On the atmosphere by the long golden artistically creative
hand of the Son. A wondrous architecture of earth and sky,
plant and ocean, flesh and blood, love and need.
People harvesting the earth, Missionaries harvesting the
People, God harvesting creation. Sweet and blood, and passion,
And joy, and frustration, and good, and evil, and peace,
And war, and love, and hate, and wisdom, and fools- all being
Born, and living, and dying; springing up from the dust, and
Returning again to it. All these thing fusing together within my
Young mind helping me see the big picture, bitter-sweet like my
Sip of coffee.
My God, I see the whole planet, from here, in South America:
And it is a harvest of beans, and blood, and beauty. So I close
my eyes and take another sip. I grab the Bible from his hard blistered
Hands, put the piece of paper in my pocket, and I look to the Harvest.
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