She hands me a dead leaf that God’s designed.
“It’s so pretty, Daddy!” she says and extends her hand.
I smile at the useless leaf and put it in my pocket.
But when I think it’s God’s, I know I shouldn’t knock it.
Aren’t my useless poems
A sort of burnt offering forged in a cauldron of wrong
That I might sing a pleasant, God-honoring song
Of death risen from the grave,
A treasure greater than I ever gave?

Posted in Perspective, Poem for Your Day, Poetry