While Running Beside the South Platte River

Today I passed a man who seemed to be fishing
in an empty river bed.
The water had dropped down over centuries
and now, pooling just out of sight,
was barely trickling through the rocky dirt.

It’s been said that you are one to change
the desert into streams
and thirsty ground into springs of water.
But will you change this dead land between us
into a place verdant with the beauty of life.

When I look across this ocean of sand
and see nothing worth saving,
you tell me that generous is the man
who is merciful
and lends of himself.
And how widely yet your mercy flows,
coming to me like rain in the spring,
that waters the earth,
and showing me how to give of new life.

Come let us set things right,
you say,
and I remember that I have known
my sins to be like scarlet,
but yet you made me white as wool.
And maybe it is not so impossible
to stand on dry land,
rod in hand,
waiting for the flash of scales.

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