Scurry
Scurry
I scurried past the fig tree He cursed
I did not turn aside
Withered days ago
More dead now
I scurry to the upper room
I fear someone will hand us over
Relative safety there
Here only a step between me and death
My mind scurries back to the fig tree
Where was its fruit?
Now my soul grasps for His words
“I Am the vine you are the branches
Abiding together we will produce fruit”
Now the Vine is dead
Soon the branches will follow
No fruit
I too am cursed
A Holy Saturday Meditation
Steve Skiver