Broken Rod

In the hand of a King
He intended to be
This twig of an Ash or a Oak
Each living thing has a purpose, has plans
So why not a twig, a staff for a King.

The rings of a tree reflect seasons of growth
Some are grand and others are lean
Each season itself, endured to the end
Brings growth to the twig, for the King.

But what makes one strong
How can nobility be earned
Can greatness come by mere growth
Do the winds of time blow with enough strength
To make a sceptre of twigs?

Could the twig be as nothing
What matters is others, not self
Add gold and silver and all precious stone
Add carvings and leather and oil
Add more to the twig
Hide each and all faults
Make it so the twig is not seen
Please every eye
Fulfill every hope
And pray that the King never leans.

But leading does come and strength is required
Even when covered with glitter and gold
To carry a load is required of all rods
Without this, they are without hope.

So back to the place where glitter is rare
Back to the land of growth
To the hidden, the common, the lonely
It's true
To the endurance of wind and of storm
To the yearning for water, and sun and growth
To collection of mineral and oar.

Strength from within, litte glamore without
Through trial and suffering and pain
A twigs gotta do what a twigs gotta do
And this without glory or fame.

Now in the field of great Ash
In the stand of the Oaks
A million great branches are made
Each one endured time, and seasons and life
Each one was created, then made.

True growth changes things
Deep things
Down within
True growth honors life, not fame
And even the desires of twigs does change
Once matured, once endured
Connection is valued more than praise.

What was once the great goal
Is now viewed as sacrifice
What was glory is now seen as pain
To be cut off, to be removed from your place
Speaks of hardship, displeasure and shame.

To spend all our time growing to be
What in time we do not desire
Is a life that is living and seeing within
A beauty not known without pain
For the hope of some glory
turns into one's duty
When we love "what we are" more
Than what "might be".

So the rod that is chosen to support the great King
Is a rod deeply broken within
In support, never failing
In glory, no thought
In beauty and position - esteemed
Yet humbled by privilege
And mindful of life
To be broken
Held
by the King.

For no matter how glorious the palace may be
The secptue, once a rod, once a branch, once a twig
Knows it's by grace he was chosen for this
And remembers the lessons of change.


Life is only short here on earth, our other life has endless days.