A littered life
I lift to you.
You gave this gift,
a seed, to grow—
And I ran away
to waste and woe.
This meager measure
of mottled harvest
is hardened hopeless
by my aching heart.
O God of knowledge,
name me not!
Label me lowly,
less than life
that I may run
from your righteous wrath.
But smiling, soft
you spread your hands
And say You want
my wretched weeds.
And while I watch,
they wash to roses
in those hands, Your hands
that hold my hope.