The church’s Sequoia
I cannot climb
Its towering branches
Block the sun
Its massive trunk
I cannot hug
On the dry ground beneath it
Nothing grows
BUT
The Christ’s mustard seed
I cup in my palm
Careful not to blow it away
I cradle it
Trusting not to lose it
I bury it in my soul’s rich soil
Soon, by the grace of God
I nest in its low branches
I love it!
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