It is not an easy task
You have given us, God of Creation
To till the soil, plant and harvest,
and care for all that You have created.
Only You can decree rain in its time,
or hold back the late frost
bringing certain death
to the strawberry flower.
I long to place before You my offering,
the best I can gather from my fields.
But delayed rain did not revive the garden
and the late frost killed the first fruit.
I want to rise before You as an offering,
but what are my first fruits?
I am too often a prayer spoken in haste,
my tongue tripping carelessly over sacred words.
The first strawberry is the largest,
a deep and vibrant red.
But the second fruit that grows in its shadow
is very often the sweetest.
My prayer is sincere, but my offering
is not sufficient to rise before You.
So please, Compassionate One, meet me
halfway between earth and heaven.