'Be fruitful,' how the gardeners have failed.  Leaves aflame, wrathful messengers of God.  We have eaten the fruit, death has been hailed.  God! We've killed it all! All returns to sod.  Earth brown and brittle, now we walk alone,  The chill wind stunts growth, even of the thorn.   We bury the seed, what can now atone?  Weeping, we see the earth of glory shorn.   Oh, spare us! Send life for we surely die!  Then tender, living, green, a shoot appears,  Buried, yet alive, answer to our cry,  Dead trees in flower, smiles amid tears.  You said my seed would crush the serpent's head.  What wonder that the seed first must be dead!

Photo by Matt on Unsplash

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