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Sowing
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By Peter O
Other Poems by Peter O


Sowing

Father,
My soul is a field, and
With Your iron-tipped plow
Furrow my waiting earth, then,
Sow Your Spirit-Seeds.
As You know, my flesh-seeds,
My faults and flaws,
My desires and longings, often
Turn against and rebel against You.
Not only are they mutinous,
But they mute the Spitit-Seed's call.
Pride closes the furrows,
Spells my earth into a shadow underworld,
And hardens the Spirit-Seed's wall, but
Your grace unwalls this pride,
Opens the furrows, so that
The Spirit's stalks will  rise and surface
To a Sun-Touched world -- You.
Then, with the flesh-seeds left to starve
Joy, peace, and love, the Spirit's fruit,
Will bloom through my hours.
Father, grant this through
The Breath-Gifting scars of Your Son,
The Risen Jesus.


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Submitted: Sunday, July 22, 2012

Last Updated: Monday, July 23, 2012

About the Poet
I am 79 years of age. For the past nine years I have been retired, after forty years, from the field of alcoholism and drug abuse in New York City. I am married and we have two grown sons and two grand-sons. My life changed through a grace-experience in 1967. Writing Christian prayers is a particular interest of mine. This came about by a growing awareness of the spiritual in recovery from addictions. I choose, intellectually and emotionally, to believe the Triune God of the Sared Scriptures as my Healer.


Other Poems by Peter O


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