Turn by Katharine Grubb

For Miranda

I
took that
threadbare phrase
“It’s no hill for a climber”
And I forced it into a redemptive
backflip, sanctified by truth
Of self-sacrificing seeds.
Stepping way back
Through God’s telescope
To see me, for a glimpse
Of his point of view.
I am but a worm,
Or so they say,
Given a task,
To toil on
this
fallen
earth
Alongside
these weary
souls next to me
And should I be glorified
Or snuffed out too soon, I want
to be found faithful. So I will collect
My little mites of fears and frustrations
And offer them to my maker, who dries my tears
And exchanges my crumbled worries for his blood-stained
Promises, that pour grace into my fatigue, and reminds to drink
A glass of water, take a nap, do something fun with my friends. And sing.