Yes, I hear you root of bitterness.
How your seed's shell falls clanging in the early hours of my workday.
I hear your shoot's spreading through the soil of my life,
and wince at the noise your leaves make in a wind that still brings blessing.
But you are a weed amongst aspens of faith.
A thistle in the pines of the faithful.
A gracious forest of boughs and branches dwarfs your sting.
In a majesty that crushes your fear and loathing.
For the saws that reap souls, make a noise too.
and they are joyful.
The scythe that harvests what is white and ready,
sings of heaven in your pitiful sting's face.
I hear you root of bitterness, as you clog up my garden.
As you worm into my life of husbandry to the soul.
As you creep into my work of the word and its sowing.
And you are ignored.