Mustard Seed
A Poem
Stained white cloth draped across
dripping shoulders dampened in shame.
Laid with heavy regret,
steeped in crimson rain,
that pooled deep beneath
tired feet slipping
through a restless bog
rippling with cruel scarlet nails
and throbbing thorned rot.
Not even walking,
more like sinking,
into a slow suffocating anticipation
of a judgment from an angry god,
the man’s head hanging by a knotted thread
of dreadful thoughts twisted thin
fraying at the seam
praying to wake
from this long dark
disquieting dream.
The torment he alone could not escape
like a heavy cross that must be carried
alone across the barren landscape.
With each exhale slithers a strained sigh,
with each inhale scrapes a dry cry.
The hungry desert devouring another tormented soul,
set to digest hope.
Salted.
Seasoned.
Embroiled.
Silence in isolation,
exacerbated by relentless condemnation
of hindered aspirations,
dreams bled out by a
plethora of soured expectations.
Sagging beneath monstrous lies
limbs gripping to bloody rags,
the sufferer finally begs to die.
But before death can sink its bite,
one last thought,
one last prayer before the night.
The bowed head raised one more time.
“Save me Father”, he sobbed and cried.
Tears cooled his burning face,
nothing more to hide,
with only space left in his desolate world
for a mustard seed of faith.
The moaning wind shuddered and calmed,
the banshee’s howl drowned out by the silent psalm.
A brilliant bolt then split the canvas of this darkened mind,
the stooped cross bearer now stood straight,
the weight now light,
no longer alone, a man by his side.
The Crowned King shimmered with the decorated wounds of the world
like rubies in His Hands and Feet,
standing as firm as the mountains
with eyes of glittering diamonds
like the shimmering seas.
“I am not worthy of your love, My King”, whimpered the lowly man, as he fell to his knees.
“My Son, you called for me”, spoke the God Man.
As He shouldered the weight, clouds then came
and as they stood there, it began to rain.
“Son, your clothes are dirty, yet now they are clean”.
The stains of crimson sin’s smear were then purified by heaven’s tears.
He then beckoned His child, now redeemed.
No words were needed after this miracle took place,
only a Father and His Son in a long embrace.
The dream ended when The Lord ascended,
no desert now held the heart dependent,
but a green pasture with no end.
Fed by His Words of Truth and Love,
still carrying a cross but with help above.
The man smiled for the first time in an age,
eyes now free to roam outside his cage.
His transcendent gaze looked down,
amazed at his garments
that were once stained
beyond saving.
The robes were as pure as snow,
a gift from the King,
sin’s price of death
now paid in full.
What was once barren field,
now a King’s garden of divine graceful yield.
Its roots tracing deep down
to only a mustard seed,
A mustard seed of faith.
A mustard seed of faith, indeed.
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Much love,
Mac