The tree, it stretches up heavenward high,
emerging from the depths of ash and earth.
The dirt, the humus, dark as night-black sky
as if the hand of God calls forth my worth.

Behold my grace through vessel, see my love
in bark-covered-twisted-winter-dead tree.
Life perches here affirmed by thorn and dove,
terra firma to winter sky, now free.

The tree awaits what I await: the Spring.
I find the Stabat Mater here; her cry.
A Death transformed to life, first-fruit bearing,
One branch, finger-like calls me forth, to die.

“Here I will sit and rest awhile” in thee,
My Lord, I cry, who saved a wretch like me.

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About The Author

Fr. Clint Wilson is associate rector for Christian Faith and formation at St. George’s Episcopal Church in Nashville, and serves as the ecumenical officer for the Episcopal Diocese of Tennessee.

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