dust

sons of adam, daughters of eve
dust turned black and hard with drought
ashen with destruction’s fire

behold, the Maker plants a garden
His back plowed with deep furrows
our thorns upon His holy brow

we have sat fallow in the waiting
He the sower now plants His seed
opens up our earthen hands

to receive His rain, receive His sun
we shall be a harvest rising from the ground
at the end there shall be jubilee

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dust

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