“Here’s a truth, friends,”
He said before leaving:
“Anyone with faith
will do greater things
than these when I go
to the Father.”
Hyperbole. It had to be.
Greater things than
water into wine?
Raging seas calmed?
Lepers cleansed, dead
raised? Really, Jesus?
Then I saw the tree—
dead, fallen years before,
limbs snapped raw like
broken bones, its trunk
a shroud-less corpse
still teeming with life:
nursery for seedlings,
respirator for carbon,
canteen for fresh water;
host to spiders, snails, voles;
construction site for ants
where microbes multiply
as sunlight showers
down a holey canopy,
mothering life miraculous
as moss and myriad as stars,
the Father echoing one
thing and the same:
Greater things by far!
