Burial

I am only a grain, O Lord, I am but a tiny grain, Yet I wish to bear forth fruit Warmed by the spring's gentle rain.

"Very well," the Lord replied, "Prepare yourself for burial, Whoever wishes to be of use Must witness their own decay.

"Does this mean that I must die?! I confess I do not wish it, Oh no, I never did intend That life should end this way!"

Years passed, and I remained alive, Untouched by oblivion's call, Yet not a single life was born From the seed within my soul.

Before I would not listen To words of sacrifice and loss, But now at last I understand, And I am ready for my cross.