Composting The Self

“Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.” (John 12.24)

"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vine grower. He takes away every branch in me that does not bear fruit, and everyone that does he prunes so that it bears more fruit.” (John 15.1-2)

Humble Earth

All the fruits of the past decay
To dust beneath the sands of time;
The morass of the heart’s dismay
Forms must amidst the rotting slime.

The bottom of the heart composts
With melee bugs of grief’s despair;
The self-abasement’s so morose --
Like worms writhing in darkened lair.

The stench of bitterness wafts high
Reeking of life’s futility;
The death of self is drawing nigh –
Humus to bear humility.

How fertile is the heart’s compost!
All the virtues are rooted here.
The death of self – which hurts the most –
Bears fruits of strength that persevere.

The humus of the humble earth
Accepts whate’er takes root therein;
The Father tends the new-found mirth:
Tilling, planting, hoeing out sin.

The rains of mercy penetrate
The humus of humility.
In this silent, submissive state,
The heart’s of most utility.

Lord, send the bugs and worms to rot
The sordid stubble of my pride!
This state of compost is my lot –
How meek the heart whose self has died!

May the Spirit grant us the wisdom to see the depths of our own hearts in the light of truth and the understanding to mercifully accept ourselves as we know God accepts us.