Dirt Daubing
By Hope Ellen Rapson
Earth’s children play in dirt,
Claiming “a pound won’t hurt!”
They make and serve mud pies
Under sultry summer skies.
After all, they’re made of clay;
They only dabble in what may
Be the bent that does direct
What everyone should expect.
Filthy from head to toe…
Washing? Well, some might go.
Yet in their next new morn
They will certainly return
To play in the clay and dirt,
Laughing, “A pound won’t hurt!”
So God’s Son came trapped in dirt,
Teaching every ounce does hurt!
Instead of molding mere mud pies,
With spit-filled daubs, he opened eyes.
He showed that spirit-filled clay
Need not dabble in what may
Twist, distort, or harden to direct---
Just what muddied souls expect.
So some, still filthy head to toe,
Through God’s cleansing showers go
And in the bright blue morn,
They find themselves reborn,
Never wanting to play in dirt,
Knowing just a bit will hurt!
Other poems by Hope Ellen Rapson
Hypostasis ( A poem for Christmas)
The Seed Pod (A poem for Holy Week)
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