I hide the withered parts of me,
like limbs that never grew.
I will not let the wide world see,
but I am known to you.

And you have never turned away
from anything I hide.
Within your deep, unflinching gaze,
I cannot but abide.

I flinch, my God.  I turn from you
and curl around my heart.
How can you love what never grew
in my unfinished parts?

No, but you love the gawky seed
still awkward on its stem,
still reaching, in its sunlit need,
for what it lacks within.

The first leaves grow and drop the shell
upon the unseen roots,
and you alone, O God, can tell
the calling of the shoots.

If they are choked by thorns and weeds
or stricken among stones,
yet do you love the failing seeds
who by your grace have grown.

Then love me growing, if you will;
though may blossom not
before the frosts of winter kill,
yet love me still, my God.