Like seed I am buried in the ground
dead and unknown,
covered over in Friday,
soaked through with Sunday,
that in my dying,
our dying,
there might be living,
his living.
I go to the field called "Mission"
bought with the blood of a lamb,
I go with my deed labeled "Cross"
with good-news seed in hand,
I go to plant a garden
I go to grow a city
I go to harvest new reality
I go to to till new land.
Salvation, spring up from the ground,
in dogwood blossoms
and pomegranates
and cedars to shade,
populating,
a new garden in waiting.
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