Poetry

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Fall, fall,
Little seed;
Fall and represent His picture of me.

But if it is me
That You choose to be,
May His Holy Spirit land on the soil of righteousness.

The well-known path
I have seen seeds rest on,
Left them unnourished, robbed, trampled upon.

The rocks
Which have been known to praise,
Offered no cleansing root to a seed's withering ways.

Smothering thorns
Bring no hope for success;
Invited pain removes the chance to produce what is best.

I will not give up; my heart has His goals
To rise above sin and produce a harvest of seeds,
Just like the seed He dropped inside me.

So deep in the ground where good soil surrounds,
I will be found soaking up His love
To reflect His awesome beauty sent from above.

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