Poem January 14, 1985 Issue

As brother to Zacchaeus*

CORA SLAUGHTER

I climb my sycomore tree,
wholly lifted above crude crunch, mundane mutterings,
to the free, uncluttered view
I seek. Here,
in the cool clean wind, rustling leaves,
the Master sees me standing as I truly am:
no poor sinner but salvation's heir,
worthy of the Father's care—
my heart a fit abode today,
as publican turned joyous host to Truth.

For, like Zacchaeus,
if I have robbed (seen others as sick, poor, unloved)
I now embrace each one,
as no longer lost but found,
give back fourfold of Love's true measure
to behold in them and me—beloved son!

CORA SLAUGHTER

*See Luke 19:1–10.

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