I’m standing in the back unsteady,
not understanding Your story about good seed
fields with soil rich and deep,
enemies in the night that plant weeds,
which burn in bundles while reaping the wheat.
Later I ask, which makes You laugh
but it’s laughter of a patient kind,
for You take the time to tell me
You’re the sower, the field the world,
the seeds You plant, your people, me,
among the weeds, the devil’s lies, I’ll grow,
His own, until the end of time
while evil dies in flames, we’ll shine together,
and Peter, You say, *blessed are your questioning ears,
for you hear what prophets prayed to hear,
the mysteries they strained for years
to see before your eyes.