Keep your proclamations of grandeur.
Give me an easter as small as a seed.
One that can be planted while it’s still cold outside.
One that can be watered with tears,
and demands time and patience to grow.
I don’t need to know how large it will become,
how long until it blossoms,
or even if it will be pretty.
I only want it to grow roots that dig deep down,
striving for life in the underbelly of the world.
Spare me the cosmic promises of other-worldly escape
and point me to the Sacred possibilities within reach.
Tell me again about how the nutrients born from decay
keep even the saddest places brimming with potential for life.
– Rev. M Barclay, enfleshed