Photo taken in the prayer garden at First Baptist Church, Richmond, Texas. Our early morning Easter services are held under this oak tree, among the oldest and largest in South Texas.
Lord, from clay you made us,
to be a living soul
from your own breath
to live in harmony with you.
Too soon we strayed away.
But clay I am, and you the potter
always shaping and reshaping.
However you make me
I am your child,’fashioned in your image.
Your continual moulding turns
pride ito humility,
indifference to love,
faint-heartedness to faith,
ingratitude to thankfulness.
` from Clay, by Marianne Dormann
lemon blossom bobs,
wafting fragrant promise of bounty
tiny garden helper
reminds me small things matter
and I, too, can make a difference
I have watched the knobby bare branches of our fig tree spread in the past few months, bereft of any sign of life. Now, suddenly, green buds swell and begin waving tiny green flags announcing the approach of another season of leafing and fruiting.
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the world
Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day