All this work seeking specks on snow is chicken scratch,

for here I am,

grasping for crumbs under the table,

coveting the hem of Your garment

when I am an invited guest at Your banquet table.

I’m sewing a new patch on an old wine-skin;

rather than the patch,

I will put on my new robe,

garment of praise

more fitting for a Daughter of the King.

So dressed, I will rise up,

approach Your throne room with confidence,

and claim my prize –

more,

and more,

and more

of You –

double portion,

spilling over,

uncontainable,

glory following glory.

This seeking specks

is for

the birds…