Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow...
Your hands are even older than the soil You work. This sand, this silt, this clay that Your spade now turns once churned as magma in the belly of the Earth. And for aeons it danced before You in that light-less inferno, falling, rising, undulating with the subterranean flows, until at last You called it out of darkness and brought it raining down in smoke and ash upon the land of light. By wind and rain, by snow and frost, You beat and pounded and lovingly crafted each precious grain.
And now Your ancient hands caress this soft soil that You have called out of darkness for a purpose, and as each tiny grain slips between Your fingers You recall and relive its storied past. But those primordial memories of this soil are eclipsed by Your divine vision for its future. For, if there has been any constant in this ancient story it is that You are always, always doing something new and beautiful.
You roll the tiny seed between Your fingers and feel the promise of new life pulsing within it. Within the seed lies a deep mystery, secure from mortal mind and known only to the One who spoke it into existence. And though there have been billions upon billions of seeds that have blown upon the winds of this world, this seed within Your hand is special. There has never been one exactly like it and there never will be again. This little seed is a unique and precious child of Yours, and You breathe upon it the blessing of a loving Father as You gently lay it upon the bed of soil You have prepared for it.
The clouds gather at Your command and the little seed drinks deeply of life-giving water from Your hand. The clouds break and the sunbeams peer through, and the biological miracle waiting within the seed takes its cue from its Creator and sends forth a tiny green shoot. The roots grow strong and healthy and in a few days the tiny green shoot opens up into a brilliant head of yellow petals. The little flower turns her face up to the One who has called her to life and pours out a hymn of praise to her Maker.
She sings a hymn of vibrant color in the middle of a desert, and there is only One who hears it. In a wasteland where no one lives, she spreads her tiny petals in a litany of praise, and there is only One who sees it. She exhales her fragrance upon the wind, and there is only One who delights in her offering. She sways and dances with the breezes in a jubilant celebration of life, and there is only One who smiles at her display.
Then the sun rises with scorching heat and withers the plant; her blossom falls and her beauty is destroyed, and there is only One who kneels beside her in the end and gently lays her sacred head upon the dust where she was born. There is only One who sings her eulogy; there is only One who remembers, who will always, always remember.
You, who loves the grasses of the field, also grant me the faith to surrender each of my days as an offering of praise before an audience of One, and, in the end, to lay my head peacefully upon the dust You called me from, fully trusting that You are the Resurrection and the Life.