O God who gathers up what we lay down
like Abraham—in purchased caves on land
we do not own, or slender trenches plowed

among whole neighborhoods of lives; Who spans
the gulf from shore to shore and settles roots
on either side; Who walks through wasted stands

of forest—burned and black in disrepute—
with acorn and samara, plants them back
to virgin forest even rampant bruit

would fail to speak the measure of; Who packs
the earth with meek men’s bones and stacks up stones
like one who knows the martyr’s grief; Who tracks

each speck of dust to reap what has been sown;
Have mercy. Help me feel the breaking bough
as one whose hope is seated near your throne.