Dektos

No claim of innocence by my own hand,

For blameless soil, from God's own touch I stand.

A sound tree, Christ proclaims, with branches strong,

Planted in grace, where goodness can belong.

The human form, in scripture's ancient rhyme,

A symbol held, of both potential crime

And fruitful worth, a harvest to behold.

My roots in faith, make barrenness grow cold.

No twisted branches, gnarled with bitter plight,

My sap runs pure, with love's eternal light.

For Christ's own words, a promise I embrace,

A sound tree yields, no fruit of dark disgrace.

So let me grow, beneath the sunlit sky,

A testament to hope that reaches high.

With every deed, a blossom I unfurl,

Reflecting grace, upon this weary world.