image from dreamstime.com
We tip with easy hands, folded monetary grace a gratuity for servers bearing plates through crowded rooms; their labor seen, their weary, waiting face a quiet plea our gratitude easily assumes. Why is it then that the offering plate in Sunday’s space moves down the pew, our giving often blooms into reluctance — guarded, slow, displaced? For God asks softly, hidden from our sight; no apron, no refilled glass, no hurried pace ~ just love received, too vast to name or trace. And so we clutch the gift meant to be given, forgetting open hands are how we live in grace.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
