Mirza Luke

A boy, the firstborn of his mother’s womb,
Sharp wounding arrow shot into the sky:
He bursts the clouds, the silver pours forth gold
As blessings heap in mounds, far rich rewards;
The fallen leaves are treasure troves explored
As gasping piles yield quickly unto life
And Olney bends so slightly to behold
The ten-year-old who runs within its bounds.
Time passes, leaves leave dust then loam,
A nineteen-year-old garden neatly tended:
A fertile planting ground for roses sweet
With thorns, though few, for he is not a god,
But throws his voice, an incense, heavenward,
Pleasing aroma resonating strong:
Jesus Christ the Apple Tree his song.


6 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Pengyou
    Oct 08, 2012 @ 23:52:01

    And sort of reminds me of Dr. Seuss–in that it’s otherworldly, I mean.


  2. silver account
    Oct 09, 2012 @ 02:32:58

    Psalms 127:3 Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward.


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