Empty hands are all I have. The nothing’s all You need:
in the valley of my palm, You place a mustard seed.

My skin’s no soil with room for roots—all I’ll do is impede.
You smile as if my doubt is cute, like darling mustard seeds.

Then what am I to do with it, this barren, blackened bead?
You seem to see a use for it, this little mustard seed.

You hung the sky, filled the sea—from Your word the world proceeds.
There’s nothing You’d ever need from me, and yet, You want this seed?

I realize now that both are true—while You can do any deed,
there’s one mere thing that I can do: return the mustard seed.

Please finish what You’ve started and I’ll follow where You lead.
Take and tend my small attempt at faith: my mustard seed.

Originally published in Kosmeo Magazine.