On Mondays, I've been stretching my pen a bit, diving into a practice of psalm writing. It seems there is so much noise these days, and the constant volley of purported Christian ideals (emphasis on "purported") drowns out the more personal expressions of the faith. I suppose Mondays are my way of offering a counter volley, weak though it may be. I hope you enjoy these, and I'd love it if a few of you stretched into writing Psalms on Mondays with me.
Psalm #3 (The Come By Here)
Not unlike the saw-leafed sycamore did my family grow into glory, it's low branches pruned by three arborists and father time, so that the canopy stretched higher and straighter, the roots reached deeper to bedrock, into the heart of the rich and endless earth.
I, Zacchaeus, climbed hoping for the uppermost branches, for the grace to dissolve into ash-white bark, to stretch arms into limbs, fan fingers into leaves, and to be fully nourished in the rising of this morning's exploding Come By Here.