Lord,
When all that I don’t know fills up the cup of all that I do,
like You I head to the garden, a place where mystery
is non-threatening, a place that feels as though
Your hand has just been there. Digging into the dirt
of words, shaken roots which sully truth, I sometimes
fling my papers toward the moon–a desperate radish.
But in the garden where there are no better words for light,
just light itself, I work toward the water of my soul.
It’s a beautiful place, this garden, mostly because
You are there.
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