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 viewI 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 measureto behold in them and me—beloved son!

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