The stump is pulled, and gnarled, twisted, bent,
It leans in awkward and in angled ways.
Forgotten are the harvests that it sent
Into the world to nourish and amaze.
I say forgotten but that isn’t right,
How could the fruit forget the sap and root?
To be enjoyed, to be a sweetened bite
Is to remember God as absolute.
He is the one who made the taste of grace
Arise from root balls buried in the earth.
He is the one who brings us face to face
With cherished thanks for what a father’s worth.
Whatever God bestows is here the same,
This is the root where grace derives its name.
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