In a paper sack, divine worth unfolds,
Three dollars sought, the mystic threshold.
Not to explode the soul, disrupt the sleep,
But warmth of milk, or in sunlight, a peep.

No transformation craved, just ecstasy's kiss,
A pound of Eternal, in humble bliss.
No love for the different, no migrant's toil,
Just God's warmth, in the womb, without turmoil.

Three dollars worth of the sacred embrace,
In a simple request, a yearning grace.

January 2, 2023
Created by
MarkWaldrop

Taken from
“Three Dollars Worth of God”
Wilbur Reesy